


Redbreast in a Cage

by Rachel24601



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Blackmail, Dark, Dark Captain Hook | Killian Jones, Dark Emma Swan, Escape, Evil, F/M, Horror, Killing, Love, Manipulation, Obsession, Parallel Universes, Phone Calls & Telephones, Prison, Psychological Horror, Sexual Content, Sexual Tension, Suspense, Teacher-Student Relationship, Threats of Violence, Thriller, Violence, Violent Thoughts, Voyeurism, Weddings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-27
Updated: 2018-12-16
Packaged: 2018-12-20 13:08:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 20
Words: 40,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11921568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rachel24601/pseuds/Rachel24601
Summary: When Emma Swan, a young psychology student, decides to write a thesis about prison, her discoveries threaten to overthrow her entire life, especially when she is brought to have several interviews with the serial killer who terrorized Storybrooke: the Driveway Ripper, AKA Killian Jones.





	1. Initiation

**Author's Note:**

> "Once Upon A Time" always felt to me like a show that could be darker than it turned out to be. Aren't all fairytales kind of horror stories? This is my take on this - a slightly silence-of-the-lambs-inspired version of those characters we all love. Hope you enjoy it. Comments are more than welcome.

 

At first, it was all about learning. It was about discovering. Because the third trimester was nearing its end, and most of her friends and acquaintances had already chosen a topic for their thesis. The deadline was coming up, and she had picked without thinking. Prison. Why? She wouldn't be able to answer that, but why not? It seemed as relevant as anything else, and she would at least get a decent mark for originality.

Although her teacher warned her about this and asked if she could meet him in his office, Emma didn’t exactly feel worried yet. She had no concrete idea why she had chosen this particular topic for her studies, but she felt ready to stand her ground.

If she was given a chance to take it back now, she supposed she would. She really couldn’t tell you why she had defended her choice so well, even when she didn’t know why she had made it. She probably only had herself to blame.

Doctor Archie Hopper had always seemed like a kind man, to Emma. The concern on his face, when he greeted her in his office, was almost enough to move her.

"Emma." He smiled, curly hair peaking out of both sides of his glasses.

"You wanted to see me, sir?"

"No need to look worried, it's nothing serious. Sit, please."

She complied and folded her hands on her lap. Her golden hair was gathered into a smooth ponytail, and she resisted the urge to fiddle with the few strands that fell free. It wasn't as though Archie Hopper was an intimidating man, and yet Emma could not refrain from being nervous. It was because of the thesis, she knew it before he had to say it. _That's_ what made her uncomfortable. She knew that for certain, even though she couldn't explain why in God's name.

"I'll be honest with you, Emma." The man spoke quietly. "It's about the topic you've chosen. Alienation is a vast subject, and although I'm certain prison would be one very interesting way to treat it, I feel that I must warn you."

"Warn me?"

"Don't get me wrong, the subject is difficult to handle no matter how you put it, only I'm afraid the one you chose might be more difficult than others." He continued, looking earnest. "There will be visits involved. I hear the mere environment is enough to change a person. If you want to write about what prison does to inmates, you'll have to meet a few."

"Sir, with all due respect –" Emma made sure to smile, radiating confidence. "I wouldn't have chosen something I can't handle."

"I just wanted to make sure you had thought it through."

"Thank you." She answered understandingly; she did understand.

She understood her teacher's concern, she understood he had to make sure she knew what she was getting into. Truth was, she hadn't thought it through; she had thought that to study prison as an alienation of the mind would make an interesting reflection, and she had filled the paper hurriedly in class because she and Neal had worked late on wedding invitations. Now, her teacher wanted to know whether she knew what she was doing, and she didn't. It occurred to her briefly that this was the ideal time to change her mind. An open window.

And without understand exactly why, she closed it shut.

"I appreciate your concern, sir, but I'm fairly certain it won't be an issue."

"Certain?"

"Yes. I don't spook easily." She smiled, and her teacher smiled back, but there was still a light trace of worry sparkling in his eyes.

 

 

" _Prison_?" Her fiancé spoke the word as though it were the first time he heard it in his life.

Emma shrugged innocently, letting her hair loose and removing her jeans before she joined him in bed. A wedding magazine still lay on his lap, above the covers, but it seemed that the article had entirely lost his attention.

Neal and Emma had been childhood sweethearts. Neal had been her first kiss and her date at homecoming, they had finished high school together then gone their separate ways, and although many of their friends had believed it would be the end of their relationship, time had proved them wrong. She had gone to college in New York while he had stayed in Storybrooke to ultimately become the town's mechanic. She would come home to him every weekend and he would be waiting for her with a cherry tart, because it was what she had ordered on their first date. In the meanwhile, marriage had always been the obvious turnout of their relationship.

He had proposed just a month ago, when she had come home to him a Friday night, as always, and a diamond ring had been waiting for her along with the usual sweet.

Emma slid in bed and switched off the nightlight as though it would erase the astonishment on Neal's face.

"Well, I'm afraid my choices were a bit limited." She said for an excuse. "Seriously, what would you have picked concerning alienation?"

“Anything that would not imply meeting with _murderers_."

She acted as if he was being unreasonable, "Come on, Neal."

“I think I get a legitimate right to worry on this,” he said, before resuming more earnestly, “Will you at least be safe?"

“Perfectly safe. If I do meet with prisoners, it will be through bars and glass. Really, there's nothing to be worried about."

“Yet I’m pretty sure that interrogating inmates is not in the to-do-list for a bride glow.”

It only half sounded as if he was joking. Emma settled with a shrug, “In any case, it’s not as though I'm signing up for life. My essay’s due in six weeks’ time."

Though when she said it, she was convinced that her fiancé did not buy it. Part of her did not fully buy it, either.

 

 

"Well, it's not that I don't want to help you Miss Swan, only I don't usually foster a – heated environment, when it comes to my inmates. I'm certain you understand the delicate position your request puts me in."

Emma paused for a second. The office seemed neither cold nor hostile, and yet it inexplicably made her more uncomfortable than Doctor Hopper's. Ultimately, she looked back at her interlocutor, the prison warden, and echoed the single ambiguous word he had spoken. "Heated?"

"Excuse me if I sound crude, Miss Swan. You must be aware that your presence wouldn't favor the most serene atmosphere.”

Emma bit down on her irritation. So basically, if she were an ugly guy, they wouldn't be having this conversation.

"Look –" She interrupted herself when she realized the man still hadn't told her his name. "Sir. I hardly see how any of this has to do with what I came here for –"

"To write a thesis, yes. Though I’m sure you realize that I must take the welfare of my prison in consideration.”

"You're saying my presence would induce a hostile environment?"

The warden smiled; it was forced, and visibly annoyed, yet at the same time, intrigued. "What I'm saying Miss Swan, is that if you bring fresh meat at the zoo and wave it in front of the cages, the animals will bite."

"Animals?" She echoed, half-amused and more startled than actually outraged. "Are you sure it's an appropriate metaphor?"

The man's smile widened, flashing a predatory array of teeth. Suddenly, Emma wasn't at all in the mood to laugh anymore. There was something _gruesome_ about that smile.

"I'll tell you what." He said calmly, as though the surprise in her last remark had genuinely made her more amusing than irritating to his eyes. "I'll agree to your request. I'll let you write your essay and meet with one of the inmates for the following six weeks." He still hadn't dropped the grin, but sounded as serious as can be. "And then, Miss Swan, you can tell me whether the metaphor was appropriate or not."

 

 

Her heels clicked like metal against the cement ground, as she entered the lugubrious corridor, every bit of her bravery crawling into hiding down the pit of her stomach. The setting was vast yet felt narrow, and there was something frightening about its symmetry, staircases and steel-grey doors – like stepping right through the shiny surface of a mirror.

Emma’s gait was quick, though she was barely keeping up with the prison warden, whose footsteps appeared to glide like fog over the ground, as if the air around him eased him forward. The further that Emma got inside the prison, the more it seemed to her that she was beginning to understand what Doctor Archie Hopper had meant, when he had spoken of places so macabre that they change you.

Something about this place made you feel as though you were walking underwater. It felt _exactly_ like walking underwater.

For twenty-four years, Emma Swan had lived a quiet life and had never imagined that anything in the world could be so dark.

It was like spending years looking at the ocean and never seeing below the surface. You've always known what was there, but you've never _really_ looked. It felt like an epiphany. Falling through the looking glass; towards the bottom of the sea. It looks quiet from the surface, but from below, you can see all the things that are forgotten; the wreckage, seaweed and rocks, and though you tell yourself that it’s the all the same world seen from a different angle, something about it just feels darker. Much darker.

The world was filled with sharks and fish, and Emma Swan was uncertain what role she would play in this theatre.

"You'll meet the prisoner through glass." The warden spoke calmly. "He will be restrained. If there are files you wish for him to fill, remove all trombones or pins from the pages. Give him nothing but soft paper."

"Yes."

"The man I've chosen is someone who has only recently been apprehended. Someone I'm sure you've heard of. The sentence is life in prison, so you'll have plenty of time to ponder what these walls do to his brain."

Emma wasn't certain she was meant to answer, and she didn't have much time to think it through before the warden abruptly stopped walking. She did too, reflexively; her feet felt sore. If she had really thought this morning, she wouldn’t have worn heels.

The warden smiled once more – his smile was an ice shard down Emma’s spine. "He's a murderer." He specified. "But this won't bother you, will it, Miss Swan? You could even ask him where he's hidden his victims, I'm afraid even the police failed to get an answer to that."

Emma was unsure whether he was trying to intimidate her.

"Anything I failed to mention?" He asked, and it took a second for Emma to answer.

"Your name?"

The smile widened. It had something of a crocodile’s grin. "To you, Miss Swan, it'll be Mr. Gold."

 

 

Emma waited for a moment, sitting on an iron chair, for them to bring the prisoner. A thick glass separated her from the yet empty seat. The man didn't have a face yet, but in her mind, he did; the face of true evil. There was something _wrong_ about this place, something deeply unwell, and yet as Emma Swan realized her hands were slightly shaking, she acknowledged it wasn't just from fear. There was excitement; thrill. Because she had spent all her life on the bright side of the world, and it had never occurred to her before to take a look at what was underneath.

It wasn't too late, she thought; she could still back down. Mr. Gold would be glad, no doubt, and indulge himself in the thought that his prison wasn't a place for decent girls, but she wouldn't have to stand the sight of it for very long, and Doctor Hopper would understand.

Yet Emma remained frozen in her seat.

Because terror does that to you. Because true evil makes anyone curious. Because Emma was uncertain she could ever fully believe that the world was bright again. Because she felt she needed to take a real look at the darkness before she could step back out.

And then, they brought him in.

Two guards were there to drag him inside the seat, although he showed no sign of struggle. There was viciousness in his smile, manacles on his hands and feet, and such malice in the look he gave her that his eyes appeared pitch black.

The guards left them after securing him to the iron seat, and for a long moment, both remained silent. Emma was aware she should introduce herself, but something jammed her throat. Recognition. The man was Killian Jones. He was the Driveway Ripper. She had followed his crimes on television, feared him like the rest of the village when the police had established a curfew, and had felt relieved at the news of his arrest.

She was staring at the Master of the Sea. The King of the underworld.

Shadow seemed to gather in the center of his eyes, and despite the grotesque prison-blue of his uniform, despite the glass between them, he didn't look at all like the prisoner of them both. On the contrary. Something about his ruthless smile seemed to indicate that he knew _her_. An irrational thought, yet struck Emma as undeniable. He knew that she had taken a fall down the rabbit hole and that he was the darkest thing she'd ever seen.

And the glimmer of his smile breathed: _initiation_.

"Mr. Jones." She said, and her voice did not fail her. She refused to sit there, wordless, like an intimidated schoolgirl.

"You must be the student." He replied, the tone of his voice a sharp contrast of a wild blaze and smooth milk. It was the kind of voice that compels you to do just about anything.

"Yes." She felt the need to swallow back her words; he shouldn't be the one asking questions, yet to reverse their roles felt beyond her abilities.

He paused, and looked at her. His smile was knowingly wicked but trustworthy, somehow; a smile that bewitches you into letting him into your home, and into your bedroom. That gets you to open your door to a stranger, even when a murder-wave is going on. The kind of smile that genuinely makes you think that he might spare you.

Killian Jones's ostentatious gentleness was that of a wolf who dipped its paw in flour to make it look white.

"You're here to learn from me?" He asked.

“Yes,” Emma saw no point in denying.

Breathing out softly, a patient, tender smile that broadened his grin. Really – it was the kind of smile you’d sell your soul for.

 "Well, Goldilocks." He said. "Welcome to wonderland."


	2. Darkness

# Chapter 2: Darkness

"You're sure you're okay, honey?"

Emma stiffened at her fiancé's question, but her back was turned to him, and there was hope he hadn't noticed. It was around six in the morning; they were both getting ready for work which, given what hers currently involved, was not as casual as it sounded.

She slid inside her mid-thigh beige skirt and answered, "Yeah. I mean – I’m there to learn. There’s nothing about this deal that isn’t what I signed up for.”

The odds were he could tell that she sounded off, but she saw no means of preventing it. How could she, when she had just come home from an awe-inspiring trip to the bottom of the ocean, and she was about to go right back in?

Neal sighed audibly behind her, willing her to turn back and face him. “I know I said nothing yesterday, Em,” he started, “but when you came back from that place, you were – I don’t know. Unhinged. Different.”

"Oh?" She could tell her surprise would not fool him.

"Look, I understand this assignment is important to you, so I'll just make you promise me one thing. If you feel this thing is getting too risky, just promise me that you'll walk away."

"Risky?" She echoed despite herself; this much hadn't exactly occurred to her, yet.

Prison was something she had never really contemplated before now; she had never thought of it as another facet of the world, filled with people who looked just like the ones she met every day but were slightly different. Darker. Not only the criminals – that prison warden Mr. Gold perhaps made her just as uncomfortable.

At this stage, Emma was discovering the darkness like a child that sets eyes on a piece of horror fiction for the first time. It’s this gut-twisting knowledge inside you that says even if you look away, what you saw will still be there in some corner of your brain, with the unshakable power of those images you can never un-see.

Emma knew she had encountered something of the kind, but it had not yet occurred to her that the monsters might crawl out of the pages to pull her in.

"You know what I mean," Neal said; he was cute when he worried, she had to give him that.

“I don’t know, actually.”

“Honey, of all the places that I wish you never had to visit, including my workplace, which is full of horny pricks –”

“All right. I think I’m starting to get it.”

“I’m just saying that to think of you chatting with dangerous felons is not my idea of pre-marital joy.”

This actually got her laughing. “You know, Neal, I’m not sure you quite get the idea about prison. It’s customary for inmates to be behind bars.”

"Okay.” He did not sound any less serious. “Suppose they're released one day."

Emma bit her lip for a second. "If it'll make you feel any better, the inmate I'm currently meeting with is sentenced to life in prison."

"Anyone I know?" He wondered, without true curiosity. Emma reckoned that was because he wasn't expecting for her to answer: Killian Jones.

This was a decent occasion for her to say it. In truth, she hadn’t planned on lying to her fiancé, yet found when she opened her mouth to speak that nothing would come out but air. What stopped her exactly, she couldn’t say. Maybe just that Neal would be so worried and she might as well spare him that.

But that wasn’t the truth.

The truth was that, before you tell anyone that you’ve met the King of the ocean, you ask for permission.

“I shouldn’t think so,” she answered in the end, and finished adjusting her skirt. "Will you zip me up?"

…

"Miss Swan." Adam Gold greeted her that day with an eerie smile. "You came back."

“I said I would,” she replied, and felt somewhat flattered at his surprise. There were slim chances that it was genuine – Mr. Gold didn’t look like the kind of man that anything surprises.

His grin stretched half an inch. Emma felt chilled to the bone.

"Please, sit." He put warmth in his tone, and somehow got it sounding icier.

It was Emma’s second time in the man’s office and it was enough for her to determine she did not like it one bit. Viewing prison through metaphors may be a dangerous business, yet she could do little to stop herself from thinking that the prison warden, unlike Killian, looked nothing like a king, or even truly a master. He ruled the prison, yet was not exactly part of the prisoners' world.

_The puppeteer_ , Emma thought to herself, sitting frozen in her seat.

“Well,” she cleared her throat awkwardly. “I was told you wanted to meet with me again, before granting me another interview with the prisoner?”

"Yes, actually I think there's something we ought to discuss." He paused briefly. "As I've told you yesterday, Miss Swan, it's not a habit of mine to generate any sort of excitement amongst the inmates. If I allowed you to write your essay, I'm certain you understand that it was because I considered we both stood to gain from it.”

"Excuse me?"

A grin curved up his lips. She really had to learn how to stop making him smile. "Killian Jones is without a doubt one of the most psychologically complex of my prisoners. I'm sure you'll figure that out by yourself – a genuine mystery to anyone who is interested in the human psyche. You couldn’t have thought I had assigned him to you randomly.”

 

Admittedly, her first thought had been that he was trying to scare her off, but the deeper level to his motives was crystal clear.

"Killian Jones would never let a psychiatrist approach him," Mr. Gold went on, "which is why I thought that you might have a better chance at examining him. In other words, a psychology student trying to write a dissertation is not as obvious as a doctor who would endeavor to – what would your people call it? Dissect his soul, something of the like?”

“I doubt any of my colleagues would call it that.”

“Be that as it may. I wanted to make sure you understood my angle.”

"Exactly what is it you want from me?"

The unpleasantness of his smiling was like a spider crawling down her skin. "If Jones thought for a second you were here to study him specifically, he would close up like iron gates. All I ask of you, Miss Swan, is that you write your paper, and give me a copy of every word you type."

"You want me to trick him." Despite Emma's will, the word her fiancé had spoken this morning came flashing through. _R _isky__.

"Well, I assumed you would be drawn by the experience. No doctor has ever yet approached Killian Jones, his mind is all yours, so to speak. Students rarely get the chance to examine such a specimen, why shouldn’t you be curious?”

And Emma was curious. Curious because there was evil all around her, locked in cages so that it felt every bit as safe and enticing as wandering into a huge aquarium and watching sharks of gargantuan sizes swimming left and right, and of course, Emma wanted to scratch the surface, to go deeper, inch by inch, into the dark. But curiosity killed the cat.

"Jones won't see you as a threat," Mr. Gold went on. "In fact, fortunately enough, he might see you as a toy. It's easy to fool someone who thinks he's fooling you, Miss Swan."

But as Emma began to get a clearer image of Mr. Gold's character, she learned to read between the lines. And what he meant was: a pretty young girl, who looked well like the ones Killian Jones used to kill, wouldn't be considered as a threat so much as a victim.

"Concretely," the warden went on, "I'm asking you to write your thesis. And when Jones will try to lead you off track and speak about his killings, because he will, I'm asking you to write down what he says, too."

Emma Swan remained silent, but it wasn't hesitation. There could be several reasons why she should disagree to the man's offer, even if that would mean giving up on the assignment. For starters, to play any sort of game with a serial killer sounded like walking on thin ice, but foremost, she felt as though to agree to Mr. Gold's offer would inevitably mean entering his game, too. It would mean agreeing to step onto the stage of his puppet show.

But what appealed her to this place felt decidedly beyond her control. She didn't feel as though she had seen enough of this deep and dark world just yet to be able to go back to the real one. Because the sunny world above the surface of the deep blue sea _was_ the real world, she had no doubt.

Mr. Gold smiled once more, and it was quite as gruesome, when finally he asked, "Well, dear. Do we have a deal?"

…

Her heart was beating too fast when Killian Jones sat before her again. He was the prisoner, she had to remember this much, because the mere way he looked at her was enough to make her feel like a mouse caught in an eagle's claw.

There was something both _wrong_ and exciting about being looked at this way. There was something thrilling about watching the predator's mouth get watery, about being able to _sense_ the danger, but sit well and safe on the other side of that cage.

"Tell me, sweetheart," he spoke at some point, after casually answering her coy routine questions, in a voice so sweet and hoarse that he sounded a mingle of gentle and cruel. "Aren't you going to ask what it felt like?"

Emma swallowed, and wondered for a second whether she should pretend not to know what he meant. Ultimately, she said. "I don't have to know about the attacks."

"No." He agreed, then asserted with a confidence that made her breathing ragged. "But you want to." He appraised her with the custom of a professional and the devotion of an artist. "Aren't you going to ask me _why_?" He asked again. "Why some people become dentists or lawyers, and I became a Ripper? Aren't you going to ask me how evil brews, whether or not I had father issues, if I tortured small animals?"

Emma's heartbeat quickened despite herself. She remembered the deal she had made with Mr. Gold, and yet her brain shouted at her to back down. Because the way that Killian Jones looked at her right now gave her the impression that she would never quite be able to tell whether she was playing or getting played, and it inexplicably felt as though to ask a question unrelated to the dissertation she was writing would make their relationship _personal_. And this prospect was very, very frightening. Something her fiancé Neal would call risky.

But she had made a deal, and told herself that, after all, she was on the other side of the aquarium.

"Did you?" She asked, regaining some confidence.

His lips broke into a smile. "No. I don't fit the profile, do I?"

Emma didn't answer. He both fitted it too much and not at all.

"No childhood trauma. It's not quite what you see on television, heh? Everything doesn't happen for a reason, not even evil. Now, I’m making it sound uninteresting. Would you like to hear my theory?"

Emma swallowed. The notebook on her lap felt heavier than it should; she ought to be taking notes, not just because it was the reason why she was here or because of the deal she had made with Mr. Gold, but because it would restore the formality of their conversation. Under Killian Jones’s stare, she felt incapable even of that.

“What I think,” he said, “is that all of the people you see in the street, your doctor, your teacher, your pharmacist, absolutely anyone on this planet… is capable of murder."

Emma's throat jammed with alarm.

His voice was still calm, seductive, and there was a sliver of amusement in his eyes that almost looked _inviting_. Almost as though she was standing on the threshold of humanity, caught between one side brighter than the sun and another dark as coal, and Killian's gaze was saying: _come on in_.

Satisfaction curved a smile on his lips. "You think evil is a status, do you, honey? You think it's a stigma that monsters wear branded on their foreheads?" He leaned in an inch closer and although glass separated them, although Killian's hands were trapped in steel bracelets, Emma's breath was caught in her throat when he moved. "Tell me, Goldilocks. Does it ever occur to you that evil is a passion?"

…

Emma maintained a controlled pace as she exited the prison, but when the guards were out of sight, when she could no longer feel Killian Jones's eyes burning holes into her back, when she had gotten inside her car and locked every door in haste, she let out a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding.

Her hands were shaking when she steeled them around the driving wheel.

It wasn't just because of the meeting with Killian Jones, and at the same time it's all it was about. It was because, in just a couple of days, she had discovered a world she would have never suspected to exist. It was because, ever since she had lifted that heavy curtain and discovered the obscure world underneath her feet, an unconscious part of her had feared there would be no coming back towards the light. A part of her had feared that it wasn’t a new world she was looking at, but the very same one that she lived in; there was no light to come home to, at the end of the day.

Emma feared that she had seen the true face of humanity, hideous and vile; and dark, dark, dark. She feared especially that, after removing the liar’s mask, the curtain could never be brought down.


	3. The Greatest Trick

# Chapter 3: The Greatest Trick

 

“Prison?” The frown on Mary Margaret’s face did not look very stern or angry, it never did. The woman’s round and serene face looked too sweet for her scolding to sound actually intimidating, and Emma figured it was her mother’s number one flaw. “When exactly did you intend to tell us?”

“Well, I didn’t see the point in scaring you.” Emma defended. “I never go elsewhere than the visiting room and the warden’s office, I’m not anywhere near gen pop, I never even meet with more than one con. Honestly, mom, I’m fine.”

But the overly gentle frown did not leave her mother’s face. Mary Margaret and David Nolan had adopted her when she was ten, after Emma’s biological parents had died. Mary Margaret had been her baby sitter since her infancy, when Mary was just a teenager – and she had only been twenty-two years old when she had decided to adopt Emma. David Nolan, Mary Margaret’s fiancé at the time, had stood by her and agreed to legally become Emma’s father. It was not an easy thing for such young people to do, and Emma had always been grateful for it and tried to be as easy on them as possible. It was partly why she had not wanted to tell her adoptive parents about her current assignment in prison.

“Emma.” Mary Margaret let out a sigh. “Just to think that you cross ways with convicted criminals –”

“Just one criminal, mom.”

“That you actually talk to them, that you get near them. It’s not a safe game, honey. You know that you can never get into these people’s heads, they’ll get into yours.”

“That’s not the point at all.” Emma argued, but deep down, looking back on her last two sessions with Killian Jones, she figured it might be a bit true. “Besides,” she added on a light tone, “criminal minds are the most interesting ones to study.”

She only met seriousness in her mother’s eyes. “Just promise me you’ll keep this under control.”

“I will, so long as you promise you won’t tell dad.”

“All right.” Her mother agreed, not without reluctance.

They usually met up to have lunch once or twice a week at Granny’s diner, just the two of them. Emma also went home to her parents’ house once every two weeks, to have a family dinner with both her adoptive parents and Neal. Lately, she had been so busy with college and wedding plans that it had entirely slipped her mind.

“Are you free this weekend?” Emma asked, mostly to start on a new subject. “I’ve still got a wedding dress to pick.”

Her mother gave her a reprobating look, because Emma had to know that the offer would most likely win her over. “This doesn’t mean I’m not worried.” She pointed out.

“Okay.” Said the daughter anyway, because as long as the topic was off the table, it was good enough for her.

…

He watched as Emma’s upper lip got between her teeth a split second. He watched as nervousness made her swallow and moisten her lips. He watched her straightening her glasses back in place and holding back from unpinning her hair to fiddle anxiously with the golden locks.

Killian Jones reckoned that he knew what type of girl that cute college student was. He had hardly needed more than a few seconds of appraisal, what with those doe eyes and long yellow hair, and that look of curiosity on her face – the curiosity of a kitten that doesn’t want to get dirt on its plushy paw, but wants to eat the treat just the same.

The young woman was only beginning her journey into the world of the wild, and he wasn’t too sure what to get her started with. He was always polite when he answered her questions, about his new living conditions and how he felt influenced by them, and as she took notes the way a pupil does from a teacher’s speech, Killian was very aware that he was playing her. What’s more is that he thought she was aware of it too.

“Can I ask something in return?” He inquired after a few minutes, ever so courteous, and yet the look that the girl gave him was like that of a deer under the headlights of a car, in the middle of the road. It drew a ravenous smile on his lips. “It’s just you’re asking all these things about me but the warden won’t even tell me your name. He’s afraid I’ll write you, you see.”

His college girl didn’t answer anything. She was going to answer him in the end, he could tell, because he had asked politely and it was the polite thing to do.

“I’m not certain it’s appropriate.” She said cautiously.

He was used to breaking this sort of cautiousness without effort. Honestly, he ate innocent well-educated girls like her for breakfast and she was not much of a surprise to him; and yet, he thought he might take unprecedented pleasure in initiating her.

“Well, you know mine.” He remarked as an argument. “You’ve asked me about how prison is affecting me, I’ve told you a great deal about my past and myself. I don’t think it would be inappropriate for us to be on an equal footing, so long as I’ll be answering your questions.”

Emma’s throat tightened slightly. The smile on Killian Jones’s lips looked polite, but there was a hint of wildness that escaped politeness.

He went on with a honey-sweet tone – truly, he was the kind of man who could talk you into doing just about anything. “I’ll be on this side of the glass and you will be on yours, but I would find it more suiting that we be on equal grounds. I have given up on my freedom but not my pride.”

The girl appraised him as if frightened this would put him in a position of power – then she seemed to remember the manacles around his hands.

“It’s Emma.” She swallowed coyly. She probably regretted the word as soon as she’d spoken it. “Emma Swan.”

“Emma Swan.” He repeated, bristling the hairs in the back of her neck. He wouldn’t forget it. “Tell me, how did you convince our dear warden to allow you inside his prison? He isn’t too fond of outsiders, and especially those that disturb the peace and order of his fine trade.”

“I have no intention to make any kind of disturbance here.”

“This doesn’t answer my question.”

And she had been deliberate in her attempt not to answer. “It does.” She tried to sound as convincing as she could. “Mr. Gold knows I don’t pose a threat to anyone here. I just want to learn.” She lowered her eyes with something surprisingly close to shame.

“I see.”

The enjoyment that her faltering had brought on his face seemed deep, and there was a kind of worry in her chest that said he would not allow it to stop there. “It’s probably best we go back to the incarceration system –”

“You don’t want to know about the victims?” He said. Sounding so candid. “How I picked them, where I put them?”

“It’s not what I’m here for –”

“Still, wouldn’t you like to know? The warden sure does.”

“No.” She said it before she could help herself, even though it went against her agreement with Mr. Gold. Actually, as Killian Jones had said the words, she had realized it might be the last thing she wanted.

Curiosity widened the smile on Killian’s lips. It was the first time he had felt curious in a while. “Then what do you want to know, Emma Swan? What are you really here for? The study of alienation, is it – prison doesn’t alienate the mind. We all grow up in some kind of prison. Alienation happens when we fail to choose the right one.” Killian’s eyes wandered about his surroundings, the grayish walls and the people in orange suits, and finally her. “I’m not the only one in prison here, sweetheart. The thing is I don’t even need to know you to know this, because you would not have come here with your high heels and your secondhand suit if you weren’t looking to break out of it – to break out of these prison walls that you’ve created. Anyone ever told you that being good will lead you to heaven, is that the law that you abide by?” A genuinely amused laughter tore out of him. It felt unnerving to imagine that Killian Jones could feel anything. “No,” he answered his own question. “You hardly even know what you’re doing.”

Emma clenched her jaw. She was here to study, not be studied, and she should know deep inside of herself that the world that Killian Jones was describing was not the rational world – a world where killing was an art and evil was a passion could never be rational. This didn’t make his words less persuasive. She was certain this one man could convince the whole world that they were mad and he was sound, if it crossed his mind.

“I won’t play games with you.” Emma said with a rather respectable attempted authority and calm; come to think of it, this one assertion was probably her most blatant lie. “The reasons why I am here are professional by nature and they do not concern you. I’d appreciate that you resume more professional language.”

“Of course.” He said, a lamb-like compliance. “You must forgive me for seizing the distraction – it gets boring inside my prison walls, too.”

But the look on his face indicated nothing close to good behavior. Actually, if madness had a face, it was probably Killian’s – the devil’s human form is always charming. There would be no temptation if it wasn’t.

…

“You ever wonder if the world isn’t entirely different from how you think it is?”

Neal raised his eyes from his book to look at her. It was past 10 p.m., but even the quietest evening at home with her fiancé hadn’t shaken the prison-atmosphere that Emma had seemed to carry all day. Maybe this eerie feeling did not come from Mr. Gold’s prison, but from Killian Jones – from the idea that serial killers could look handsome and actually alluring, that mad people could smile and be amused and bored, like anyone else.

“This is about your thesis, isn’t it?” Neal said for an answer.

“Don’t lecture me, please. Just tell me, honestly – don’t you ever realize that our life is guided by perception, and that the world might be completely different if we looked at it from a different angle?”

“You mean, are mad people actually mad or just misunderstood?”

Emma detected the dryness in her boyfriend’s voice and retorted coldly also. “It’s not what I’m saying.” Actually, she just found it a bit easy to categorize them as: mad. It was not something that she had given much thought to before, yet now it seemed obviously too simple – someone that believes murder is just a lifestyle is insane, but Emma Swan had not decided to study the mind of a murderer to leave it there.

There was an alarm inside of her, warning her that no good comes out of opening Pandora’s box and temptation is after all the original sin, but although she had seemed to pick this subject randomly, it would make no sense that she didn’t go below the surface – everyone can take a look at a sea monster and tell you what it looks like, but they never tell you how it became a monster. Maybe the Leviathans started out as human beings. After all, Lucifer started as an angel.

“Well, I just don’t see the good that can come out of looking at things this way.” Neal said without sounding too begrudging. “I think the only world that is worth knowing is the one where we don’t take a human life without trial. And just so you know,” he added, “the only moment I’ve ever realized I had been living my life with the wrong perception of the world was when I met you.”

Although the nagging thought was still on her mind and although she was still a bit upset, Emma smiled and gave her boyfriend a short kiss.

“By the way, I’m going shopping for a wedding dress this weekend.”

“Well, be sure not to show it to me before we get married.” He teased. “I don’t want any bad luck.”

…

The words ‘bad luck’ came to many people’s minds, on that same evening. It came to the two guards who escorted Killian Jones back to his prison cell, and especially the one that Killian killed. The other one got away with a bump on the head and a broken nose. There was no telling how long the notorious convicted killer had been planning this or if he had even planned it at all. ‘Bad luck’ came to Mr. Gold when he learned about the disturbance in his prison, and that a certain criminal had reintegrated society.

It was observed on the several security cameras that the latter exited the prison facility with a very calm air. He struck in the evening, when the guards were taking him to his cell, in the camera’s blind spot, and therefore there was no explanation as to how a handcuffed prisoner had managed to kill one trained guard and knock out another. The one that survived affirmed that Killian Jones struck like a snake, with that same suddenness and beastliness that can neither be contained nor thwarted.

Killian had then put on the dead security guard’s uniform and walked out of the prison quite at ease.

It seemed that luck had rather been on the dark side of the world tonight.

And when Killian stepped out of the penitentiary of Storybrooke, Emma Swan was on his mind.


	4. Curiosity Killed the Cat

# Chapter 4: Curiosity Killed the Cat

 

_“No, I am not blushing; plaster masks have no redness in the service of shame.”_

_Alfred de Musset_

…

“What do you mean, he’s _escaped_?” Emma’s tone expressed both disbelief and outrage. Of course, she had no doubt that this was true. She had heard about it on television and had rushed to the prison on the next day, and she hadn’t really expected that Mr. Gold would tell her this was all a very bad joke.

“Trust me, my dear, I’m the least pleased person about this.” Adam Gold asserted dryly.

“I don’t even understand how it’s possible, how a convict can just walk out of prison.”

“Like I’ve said, Miss Swan, you are not the only one worried here.”

The sound of Mr. Gold’s voice naturally triggered this unnerving feeling to spread throughout her body, but today this didn’t measure up to the breaking news – Killian Jones was out in the world again, free to spread terror and live as he chose to.

“Allow me to remind you of a few things, dearie.” Mr. Gold said with a smile that Emma suspected was not amused at all. “You have come to me and asked to be brought in contact with one of my criminals, something which I considered risky but have agreed to, this was our deal. You have agreed to report to me everything that Killian Jones told you about his murders, this was our deal. The way that I see it, nothing was done on either part that actually came to disturb it. Killian’s escape is but an unfortunate incident that, as I have pointed out, will affect my line of work more than yours. I take it you will drop this field of studies and your teacher will naturally understand this, but apart from that, I simply don’t see how your life may be affected. Supposing that he wanted to come after you, Killian Jones does not know the first thing about you, not even your name.”

A mixture of ache and fright jammed Emma’s throat. She was somehow convinced that Adam Gold noticed her reaction and knew exactly the cause.

“Storybrooke is a small town.” She managed without faltering. “It’s easy to make certain faces come out.”

“I’m glad you’ve pointed this out. Killian Jones may have terrorized the state of Maine and he may even have given the police a hard time catching him, but that was before every American citizen knew how to identify him. Jones will be caught, my dear, this is a certainty, and I am quite sure that it will be done within the week. This has no cause to actually worry you, Miss Swan.”

Emma kept silent for a moment. She knew that Mr. Gold was probably an ordinary prison warden with no other motive than to keep his prison in order, and yet this was not what her gut was telling her – that he was actually a puppeteer, and that he had allowed her inside of his show knowing what would happen. This was not the truth of the rational world that Emma Swan believed it, but part of Emma was no longer rational – part of her had stopped being rational, the moment that they had brought this serial killer to meet her, vibrating with madness and murder.

“Of course, I recommend you talk to the police about your sessions here. I have notified them of my decision to allow a student to interact with one of my prisoners, therefore it is likely they will contact you.” Mr. Gold arose from his chair and Emma felt compelled to do the same thing. “It was a pleasure to do business with you, Miss Swan. I do hope we will meet again, although I’m uncertain under which circumstances that may be.”

He extended his hand in order to shake hers, and Emma suddenly realized that to touch him would repel her. She didn’t see what other choice she had, but the idea of shaking hands with this man seemed absurd, in the irrational part of her mind.

She put her hand in his and a sensation of unprecedented cold came over her. It made her think that perhaps she should have walked away when Mr. Gold had first tried to convince her, without seeing any more of his prison or his prisoners.

“May we meet again, Miss Swan.” He said politely.

And even in the sake of manners, Emma could not find it in her to repeat his sentence.

…

Emma didn’t go to class at all that day. She thought that there was something very strange about the darkness that molded you into silence. Her fiancé Neal asked her if she was okay and her teacher Dr. Hopper sent her an email to ask the same thing, and all in all that day she had plenty of occasions to break the news to someone.

It was actually when she saw Neal curse at the news program that told them that Killian Jones had broken out of Storybrooke Penitentiary that she realized she had not told anyone about this. It seemed that she could have found time to tell her boyfriend or her parents that once a week for almost a month now, she had been meeting with the notorious Driveway Ripper.

It was truly at this stage that these meetings that had happened between Killian Jones and her started feeling like a secret. Now, it would be pointless to tell the people that loved her, of course, because the only result would be to worry them, and yet Emma started feeling as if, if she didn’t say the words aloud soon, she was going to lose her mind.

But she was not going to say it. Part of her knew that, irrationally.

The sheriff came to her home a couple of days after the event. Graham Humbert was not unknown in the small village of Storybrooke, being the youngest man to earn this post in the town’s record, but he was foremost known as a hard-heartened man – Emma believed that Mary Margaret referred to him as ‘that cute gloomy cop who’s dating Madam Mayor’.

Emma let him in her house without wavering, grateful that Neal was currently at work. She had gone to school with Sheriff Humbert and she refused to let the uniform scare her off.

“Graham.” She greeted him with a polite smile, but it was slightly forced – she wasn’t in the mood to smile today.

“Emma.” He repeated the formality and almost exactly the same smile.

“Can I make you some coffee?”

“Don’t bother, I won’t be long. This is just a routine checkup, really – as I understand, you’re the last one to have seen Jones before he broke out.”

This had no motive to make Emma feel ashamed and yet for some reason she blushed. “That’s right.”

“Adam Gold tells me you’ve had several sessions with him before. If you don’t mind me asking, Emma, what was this about?”

He asked the question without actually sounding reproachful or even concerned. Emma had known Graham for most of her life, not that the two of them had ever been close or even spoken more than a few words to each other, but she had noticed he had become slightly different a few years ago, when he had started a relationship with Regina Mills, oddly – colder.

“Well, I was doing some research for a school essay, actually. I decided to study prison and asked Mr. Gold if he would be kind enough to allow me to talk to a prisoner, he agreed.”

She felt a bit awkward to give this justification as though it was not the complete truth, and yet she looked into Graham’s bleak brown eyes and she thought she didn’t have to be ashamed – he of all men in Storybrooke probably understood being attracted to darkness.

“So the nature of these sessions was professional?” He asked so matter-of-factly that Emma had trouble registering what he even meant.

“Of course.” She was too startled to sound outraged.

“And the content?”

“If you think he so much as hinted that he was planning an escape –”

“I’m not saying you had a clue, Emma. Like I told you, this is just routine work.”

She decided that she believed him. She took a look at Graham and felt sad, somewhere deep within her, because the man looked hollow and actually drained, and she doubted that he did anything that was not out of routine anymore. She doubted that this wood soldier ever felt anything at all.

…

He left when she had told him everything that she remembered about her meetings with Killian Jones – she remembered practically every word – and when she led him out the door, she caught herself asking. “Do you think that you’ll find him?”

“Sooner or later.” The sheriff answered. “Storybrooke is a small town, he can only be hiding in so many places. If he’s smart he’ll leave the village and then I suppose he will no longer be our problem.”

“Is it so simple to you?” Emma asked despite herself – she didn’t think she would be able to fully go back to normal until Killian Jones was back in prison. And deep down, she worried that even then, she would not know how to go back.

She could have chosen any field of study to go about alienation, but it was too late to feel sorry now. Now, she didn’t think she would ever be the same person she had been before she set eyes on Killian Jones’s smile.

He answered her coolly. “My trade is simple. I worry about keeping the citizens of this village safe and let other policemen worry about their own. I would make a very lousy sheriff if I could not find sleep every time a criminal got away.”

“I suppose that’s right.” She said nothing for a moment, but she didn’t sound embarrassed or actually casual. “It was good to see you again, Graham.”

“Take care of yourself, Emma.”

He walked back to his car and soon disappeared into the dreary twilight. The late afternoon looked dark tonight, particularly dark. The world always looks black, from the bottom of the ocean.

…

It happened on that same evening around 1 a.m. Neal was fast asleep at Emma’s side, and he was never the one to pick up the phone, anyway – Emma always had that talent for meeting her interlocutor’s expectations, for politely declining offers or welcoming the unexpected calls of long-distance friends.

She had been a fine interlocutor to Killian Jones as well. She came to see him because of her studies, of course, but that hadn’t been the only reason. He was bored and she was curious, and she supposed that she had partly brought this on herself – for beginners, she never should have told him her name.

When her phone rang, late that night, she was more aware of it than ever.

And sometimes, she even thought that she picked up knowing who was at the other end of the line.

“Hello?” Neal stirred beside her slightly as she spoke.

A chill crept down her spine when he answered – and his voice was the same velvet coat that had shaken her so, in prison, the voice that had somehow made her stop being smart and rational, probably the voice that the devil would use if he were to seduce a woman.

“Miss Emma Swan. I am very sorry to bother you so late. I have given much thought to our last conversation, I thought we might pick up from where we left off.”

The shock fell heavily on Emma’s face and not another word was able to leave her throat. She was not surprised. Perhaps this was the most shocking of all. Her soon-to-be husband was sleeping next to her and she was on the phone with a wanted murderer, but part of her thought that this made sense – that it made all the sense in the world.

She had asked to be introduced to the King of the wicked and He would decide when this would end and on what terms. She would need to tell Sheriff Graham about this. And yet part of her inexplicably knew that she wouldn’t.

“Do not bother trying to have this call traced, by the time that the police track down the telephone booth I’ve used, I’ll be away. Miss Swan? I don’t have all night.”

Emma’s throat tightened and she could neither manage to speak nor hang up. He had demanded an answer and for a reason she could not figure out, there seemed to be a silent authority in his words she could not will herself to disobey.

“What do you want?”

“Well, I have no much greater agenda than you did when you came to me. You were curious about my world, Emma Swan, and I seem to be curious about yours. I realize this might be awfully disappointing to you, but there is no great design to evil – I have always taken the least tedious path that life presented and prison wasn’t working for me too well. Maybe when you walked in the penitentiary on that first day, you just took a piece of me and I took a piece of you.” He said as a final explanation.

Emma clenched her jaw. “I want nothing whatsoever to do with you.”

A hoarse laughter sounded at the other end of the line. “And yet you walked to me one day in those prison walls and you asked me to teach you. I often find myself looking back on our first meeting, you know –” He said pensively. “I remember quite distinctly the first impression that you gave me, with your red skirt and your high heels. You were truly like a robin, walking in a foxhole without quite being able to explain why or to stop.”

Emma’s hand tightened around the phone. Neal made a sleepy sound next to her, and perhaps that was the only thing that made her react. “I’m going to hang up now, Killian. Then I’m going to call 911.”

“If it’ll make you feel better, sweetheart – if it’ll help with the thought that you didn’t jump through the looking glass knowing exactly what to expect from the fall. That’s not my way of saying that you were ill-intended, love.” He pointed out as though it would be extremely rude not to. “No, I think all you truly wanted was to see – and you will.”

This promise made Emma’s blood run cold in her veins.

“We all get tempted by the unknown from time to time, Emma Swan. A country boy will want to see the city lights and an urban will feel attracted to the darker side of town.” She could picture that ravenous grin on his lips as he added. “The only innocent girl that wears red is Little Red Riding Hood, Miss Swan. And we all know what the big bad wolf thought about that.”


	5. Obsession

# Chapter 5: Obsession

_‘You, who like a dagger ploughed into my heart with deadly thrill: you who, stronger than a crowd of demons, mad, and dressed to kill.’_

_Le Vampire,_ Baudelaire (translation by Roy Campbell)

…

Emma Swan wasn’t entirely certain when her legitimate fear of Killian Jones had little by little turned into obsession. Maybe it hadn’t happened gradually at all. Maybe it had been from the moment she had looked into those dark, dark eyes, and she had known with a steely certitude that the world that she thought was rational and bright had lifted up its mask. The face it had revealed was Killian’s. Beautiful. Terrible. An awe-conveying face, the same way you might look at a tiger turning about its prey or an eagle that dives in for the kill.

The words he had spoken to her over the phone came back to her mind. Maybe they had simply parted ways that first day inexplicably owning a part of each other.

Emma could no longer fall asleep without the haunting image of Killian in her head, and the imaginary sound of a telephone ring – she could hear that phone ringing even when it wasn’t. Sleepless nights are not generally recommended, just a few weeks before your wedding day.

It had not been a week since Killian’s escape, and apart from this disturbing phone call in the middle of the night, Emma had not heard of the loose killer. She had thought of calling the sheriff about this, and in fact she had, several times – but each time, before Graham’s assistant could pick up the phone, she had hung up.

Emma thought perhaps this was the exact difference between fear and obsession.

Yes, most definitely. She had never least been in the mood to make herself a bride.

“My God.” Mary Margaret exclaimed with such seriousness Emma’s heart skipped a beat. “This is gorgeous, Emma, you have to try it on.”

Emma pretended to pay attention to the white satin item. It wasn’t fair that she acted so gloomy today, she had been the one to suggest that her mother and her should go shopping for a wedding dress, but there was nothing that could be done about it. Her mind was somewhere else.

“All right.” She agreed, but there must have been something about her reply that didn’t sound excited enough because her mother frowned.

“Too classic, maybe? You know you don’t have to get married in white, there’re a lot of atypical wedding dresses that are made these days. I saw a red one in this modern shop at the edge of town.”

“No, not red. I’ll just try this one on.”

And yet as she saw herself in the dressing room mirror, a few moments later, Emma thought that perhaps this was a very bad idea… that perhaps she should have cancelled anything related to wedding plans today instead of humoring her mother.

The dress was beautiful, but beautiful didn’t mean anything to Emma Swan anymore. The silky material and overly tight bustier felt very much like a vice around her lungs. Killian’s words came back to her, about how we all lock ourselves in some kind of prison.

She got out of the dress as though if she wore it for one second more, it might set her skin on fire.

…

“There’s something wrong with you these days, Emma.”

The young woman looked back at her mother, surprised – she had been thinking of something else, as she was more often than not lately, something about the depths of the world and whether the disguise was actually more absurd than the truth. Due to this, she was almost surprised at anything that drew her from her thoughts, but Mary Margaret’s straightforward words and the genuine concern in her voice set a new record.

“That’s ridiculous.” Emma argued. “I’m just a bit stressed about the wedding.”

“You’ve known Neal since forever, honey, and you’ve never been afraid of commitment.”

“What are you saying?” Emma regretted the harshness in her words but didn’t seem able to do anything about it. She didn’t mean to sound defensive. Her mother had motive to worry and she knew it.

“You’re acting strange.” She said softly. Emma couldn’t actually remember her mother speaking a harsh word. “You don’t have to talk to me about it, but there’s something going on – and Emma, I do wish you would talk to someone.”

Emma didn’t reply anything. Her mother had driven her home and as they both stayed seated in the parked vehicle, in the driveway, Emma realized just how much she wished she didn’t have to think about it – about serial killing and the how black the world was, on the other side of that veil. She wished she could only be a bit nervous as any bride to be, a month away from the wedding.

“There’s no point.” Emma managed, figuring that she owed her mother honesty at least.

Since she had stepped a foot in Mr. Gold’s prison, she had realized that evil was very much like a black hole – that it sucked you in ultimately, no matter what you did to fight it. She wished she had never tried to discover how black the soul of a murderer was, she wished that she had never taken a first look at that bottomless pit – because when you look long enough into the darkness, the darkness looks back into you. This was probably the finest truth of German philosophy. She was trying to concentrate on Neal and on the wedding, because it was what she wanted and she didn’t want to taint a moment that was meant to be magical, but it was beyond her control – she could feel that black hole of evil trying to pull her in, and she felt she was just tired enough to think of letting go.

To take a human life was absurd. Emma Swan knew this. For someone brilliant and charming to decide to become a killer just because it was less boring than a regular job was absurd. She probably never should have tried to find the logic in it, because as a consequence the rational world had crumbled beneath her feet.

She wasn’t sure which idea she disliked most… that Killian Jones believed he owned a part of her, or that she owned a part of him.

“Do you know that he used a hook?”

“What?” Mary Margaret sounded surprised at her daughter’s question. Emma had to admit it had come rather out of the blue.

She hadn’t wanted to talk about this at all, and yet she heard the words come out despite herself. “The Driveway Ripper. Killian Jones, the one that escaped. The police never leaked to the press what weapon he used to kill his victims – it was a hook, actually.”

Her mother’s face turned whiter than usual. “Emma…” She began with a somewhat horrified tone.

“I met with him.” She said before Mary could ask. She said it so that maybe she could finally stop thinking about it. “When he was still in prison, when I was working on my project. I met with Killian Jones.” Emma dared a look at her mother.

“Oh my God.”

“You can’t tell dad, please. And you can’t tell Neal.”

“My God, Emma –”

“Please, mom. Promise me.”

Instead of saying that or anything, Mary Margaret drew her daughter against her and held her as tightly as if she knew a bit about the undertow that Emma was currently fighting against.

It was a shame that the young woman had neglected college, these past days. Emma believed she was beginning to know the colors of alienation.

…

Obsession is an ugly thing, but a pretty word, or so thought Killian. A very ugly thing, and he had seen his share of ugly.

He didn’t know what it was about Emma Swan that would not leave him be. There was something about the strength in her face that made him curious and amused, at the thought that she actually believed she was in control. She was a beautiful woman of course, but he had seen others before. That’s not all it was. It was something paradoxical, a kind of contradiction. There was just something about Emma Swan’s unscarred innocence that was almost asking to be defiled.

Maybe Killian was only curious what would happen. It had been a while since all he did was win his own games, and there was something that told him that this time might be different – maybe all he truly wanted was to start a dance with Emma Swan and be uncertain which one of them would be the last one standing.

She was a one of a kind specimen and he was growing so tired of the games he usually played. There are no rules that apply, as far as obsession is concerned. All is fair in love and war, and obsession was probably in between the two.

Killian’s dreams at night were often filled with blond hair and hazel eyes, and he would wake up in the morning and think to himself that he ought to leave town… but Killian Jones had not escaped Storybrooke Penitentiary to live on the run, and he started thinking perhaps he had not even done so to perpetuate the terror that had made him famous as the Ripper of Maine.

Truth was, when he had escaped, he had not had much more of a plan in mind than initiating Emma Swan, and he was not worried at the idea that she might actually beat him to it.

He lay in the bed of a motel room just outside of Storybrooke, and that night sleep wouldn’t come again… truly. It was like knowing you shouldn’t scratch a particular itch but being unable to resist. The thought of Emma came to him again, and he kept his eyes closed as he said to himself. “Why not?”

…

Sleep would not come for Emma Swan either, that night. She lay in bed at her fiancé’s side, and she cursed whatever it was could stand in the way of her dreams and wedding plans. She cursed Killian Jones for haunting her sleep, and she cursed him for whatever allegiance he thought she owed him.

That night, long after she had given up on rest, Emma went down the stairs and heated a full mug of yesterday’s coffee in the microwave, then she sat down on the living room couch and while taking long swallows of coffee, she dialed Graham’s phone number once more.

And once more, she ended the call before anybody answered.

“All right.” She said out loud, because she had had just about enough of Killian’s games. She could not have sounded very healthy or actually sane, speaking to herself, alone in the middle of the night, but perhaps the answer to restoring her peace of mind was not rational – perhaps she needed to follow the irrational path that she had started on and it might just lead her to Killian. “You want to play? We’ll play.” She drank another sip of coffee. “Let’s see how you like being hunted down.”

Emma didn’t go back to bed that night, and she knew that she would not struggle to call the police anymore – it wasn’t because she didn’t want Killian Jones to be caught, simply she did not think that he could be… not by the police, at least.

Because they were going to look for him in all the wrong places. Because they were searching blind. Because they were simply looking for him in the wrong world.

Some say that it takes a criminal to catch one. Emma thought she might just follow the white rabbit and see what happened.


	6. Down the Rabbit Hole

# Chapter 6: Down the Rabbit Hole

 

_‘“If he be Mr. Hyde,” he had thought, “I shall be Mr. Seek.”’_

_The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde,_ R.L. Stevenson

…

“Well, Miss Swan. It’s a delight to see you.” Mr. Gold’s tone was polite, and yet there was something about it that seemed to say… _I told you we’d meet again_.

She managed to give him a stiff smile. It was the best she could do.

“To what do I owe the pleasure?” He asked.

“Actually, I thought you might agree to let me meet with another one of your prisoners.”

Mr. Gold arched a brow that looked intrigued – and yet, inexplicably, not surprised. “Well, I must admit I find this quite odd, Miss Swan. If I recall correctly, you were determined to blame me for the interviews I have granted you with my criminal. Is this still about your thesis?”

Emma swallowed. She hadn’t still figured out whether it would be safer to lie. “Yes.” She answered at last, and Mr. Gold seemed amused at her hesitation. She had actually been neglecting college for the past week, and she didn’t feel too bad about it.

There was a dangerous killer on the run, and she was convinced for some reason that he was hers to catch. She figured that her teacher Mr. Hopper would find this a decent motive to skip class.

“I see.” Mr. Gold smiled. It was truly a terrible thing to witness. “I have to admire your courage, my dear. I would have thought that just one killer so unhinging as the Driveway Ripper would have been the end of your efforts.”

“Actually, the prisoner that I would like to speak with is one in particular.”

Amusement sparkled in Mr. Gold’s eyes. “Really.” He spoke the word without making it sound like a question.

Emma cleared her throat. “I thought you might allow me to speak with Killian Jones’s cellmate.”

“His cellmate? Well, my dear I’m afraid he would be quite useless to your thesis. He is… how could I put it? Mad as a hatter, is what he is. I don’t think you would get much out of him concerning what prison does to regular human beings.”

“Someone that takes a human life for his own satisfaction is not regular.” She argued, sounding defensive for some reason. “Yet you granted me several interviews with a killer.”

“If you take this tone with me, dearie, I’m going to have to stop pretending that I don’t know your motive has nothing to do with alienation. Well,” his smile widened, “I suppose that to some extent, it does.”

Emma only clenched her teeth. “Will you allow it or not?”

“The thing is I don’t see how it would play in my favor. For us to have a deal, Miss Swan, there must be a kind of reciprocity, a quid pro quo.”

“All right. What do you want?” She figured she wasn’t above cutting deals at this point.

“There is quite a reward hooked on Killian Jones’s head, as I’m sure you’re aware of. If your enterprise here is to go after him somehow I can hardly question your means – I only ask that you notify me before you notify the police.”

Emma looked genuinely surprised. “You’re after the reward?”

“Nowadays money is virtually power, dearie, but what I truly want is for Jones to be back behind bars, the sooner the better. You see, I’m not so fond of order being disrupted in my prison, and I insist that punishment ensues for the disrupters.” Another smile crooked up his lips. “However, as a well-intended citizen, it is my duty to let you know that it is a risky call you’re making, my dear. There are many ways that your little investigation could take a tragic turn.”

“Then let’s just say this is about my assignment.”

“Of course.”

And yet Emma thought that she didn’t like to keep making deals with that prison warden… he had been nothing but polite to her since they had met, and yet she thought that he was not just an ordinary citizen or, for that matter, well-intended.

Mr. Gold extended his hand over the wooden desk, as if reading her mind and determined to worsen her discomfort.

“Let’s shake on it. Shall we?”

Cold spread throughout Emma’s limbs at the idea of touching him. Nothing good ever comes out of making a deal with the devil, she was still a rational smart girl and she knew this. And yet, it didn’t really feel like the choice was hers. She had stopped making choices from the moment she had decided that she would not be able to resume her old life until Killian Jones was arrested. Nothing came without a price. When she shook Adam Gold’s hand, the price felt far too high.

…

Maddox Jefferson had been in prison for much longer than Killian, and all in all he hadn’t spent more than two months with the notorious serial killer. But two months can be a long time, when you spend them locked in a cell, and Emma had figured that it was a good place to start. It was not that she was thrilled to meet with another murderer, but Killian Jones had already made her see the absurd side of the world, and what worse could happen?

Jefferson didn’t exactly chill her blood like her Ripper had. He was not so arrogant and passionate about crime and besides, he was insane – really insane. Insane enough so that it made sense for him to have slaughtered half a dozen people, because only mad people resort to murder – not people who can be charismatic and who seem to tell you that they’re the sane ones, and all of those naively wandering on the bright side of the world are blind.

Emma’s skin still covered up with gooseflesh when they brought him in. The look in his eyes was vacant, and there was a smile on his lips that made her feel as though she would never sleep peacefully again.

She waited for the guards to have gone and for Jefferson’s eyes to be half-focused on her – there didn’t actually seem to be a focus, in those dead eyes. The man that she was looking at gave her the impression of a dead shell, inexplicably filled with the live spirit of a demon, very much like a terrifying jack-in-the-box would spring out of an inanimate socket.

“Hello Mr. Jefferson.” Emma heard how frightfully shy her voice was and cleared her throat. “I’m here to talk to you a bit about your former cellmate, Killian Jones. Anything that you can tell me would be helpful.”

Silence was the only answer she got. She waited for a few minutes that seemed to tarry.

“Mr. Jefferson –” Emma gasped despite herself when the inmate pressed both hands against the glass between them. The loud thump interrupted her and she didn’t have any air left in her lungs to speak again. The chains of his cuffs made a rattling sound when he lifted his hands.

“You’re his Goldilocks, aren’t you? The Ripper, he talked about you. You’re that little girl he caught, wandering about the looking glass.” Jefferson drew back in his chair and pointed a finger at her. There was dirt under all of his fingernails. “You’re Emma Swan.”

Emma stiffened despite herself.

“He said you might be coming. He told me ‘Maddy I’m not too fond of all this gray, I think I’m going to go’. The clock was ticking and ticking and I was starting to think you would be late.”

“What can you tell me about Killian?” Emma clenched her teeth and struggled to sound polite – there was something inside of her that was trying to be heard, trying to say that she should truly leave all this behind before she couldn’t. Before her life had become as absurd as the man she was trying to find.

The smile on the inmate’s face contrasted with the visible sadness in his eyes, as if he was truly a victim of his own insanity – as if the monster in him was simply beyond his control.

“Careful, Goldilocks. You’re standing on the verge of a gateway to a very wicked Wonder World. I once walked past it and let the glistening surface draw my eyes. Whether or not I fell, I suppose you can guess.”

“I’m in need of no warning, Mr. Jefferson.”

“And yet here you are. You need not to look for your Ripper, he will come looking for you, and I suggest you don’t respond to him. Once you fell down those deep waters, Miss Swan, there is no climbing back to the surface.” A wry grin distorted the features of Jefferson’s face and the low laughter that left his mouth almost seemed to escape him – to escape the fracture he had allowed to shatter his reasonable self. “A dark one he was, that Ripper. Tell me, Emma Swan – do you think that you can catch him without becoming dark in the process?”

…

The second call happened in the middle of the day. Emma had left the Penitentiary of Storybrooke shaken that afternoon and with the thought in mind that she would never step foot in it again. She was uncertain what it was about Mr. Gold’s prison that she ended up needing inevitably. Perhaps it was beyond her control, too.

He called as she was driving home, just when she was parking in the driveway.

She picked up and an immediate pang spread through her chest, as though she could feel Killian Jones’s presence, miles away from here, wherever he was – as if that piece of her that he owned was catching fire.

“Killian.” She spoke his name even though he had not made a sound to prove it was him calling and even though, if she was wrong, she had just incriminated herself. That thing in her that Killian Jones had forced into bondage only responded to her master’s call. She was not wrong.

“It’s a pleasure to hear from you again, Emma Swan. I hope you’ll forgive the delay, I had a few things to take care of to ensure my discretion in town. I don’t know whether you have tried to contact the police about our interaction but from now on I’m afraid you’ll find me untraceable.”

“I haven’t contacted the police.”

“Yes, I had figured not.”

Emma clenched her teeth tightly. It was all she could think of doing to anchor herself to the real world. “Why take the risk?”

“I assume because I’m curious what will happen. I am very much guilty of the same fault as you, Emma, I’ve always been fascinated with paradoxes – my world is not for people like you and yours is not for me, and yet I feel something inexplicable drawing me to it. I can’t decide whether I’ll draw you in or you’ll draw me out or if both of us will drown.”

“I have no intention of doing any of the three.”

“And yet you came to me, not the other way round. Tell me, Emma, do you see yourself entering that prison for the first time and wonder why you did it? So many of us don’t get a choice concerning what prison we grow into – you had loving parents and no doubt a very loving sweetheart, didn’t you? Wedding plans, or so I’ve heard.”

Gooseflesh covered Emma’s skin at the mention. For some reason, it was the first time it occurred to her that to get close enough to catching Killian Jones, he would need to get close to her.

“You could have had all this, Emma, the happiness and the dull glimmers of ordinary life. And yet one morning you woke up and you decided to break into my world. Into my _mind_. You should be able to understand why I’ve done the same thing.”

“Fair enough. Where is this going?”

“Well, aren’t you curious anymore? There is no excuse or required topic as there was in prison and we have all the time in the world, Emma Swan.”

Emma clenched her teeth to repress a shudder. Every time that he spoke her name, she thought that she might end up hating it.

“All right.” She pondered what it was that he wanted her to ask for a short while. The answer came as rather obvious. “Why did you kill them? What makes somebody angry enough to take a life?”

“Why should it have anything to do with anger? Murder is not an appropriate response to whatever animosity we can feel towards someone. It has nothing to do with it at all.”

“You called it passion when we first talked about it.”

“There can be nothing more passionate.” He agreed.

“But there’re a number of things that you could have done to go about it.” Emma tightened her lips together before she said it; she was certain he had known that she would guess. “It’s about power.”

A kind of sorrow overwhelmed her as she said the words. Maybe because this did not only apply to Killian Jones – because, at different scales, this was the first principle that applied to the real world and to the irrational world. Maybe because she was coming to the ultimate and inevitable conclusion that there was only one.

Anger made her clench her jaw and tainted her voice. “Power is the only language that you men understand.”

“It is the way of the world, love. Not the way of men. Men but follow the law of the jungle through different interpretations, sometimes soft and sometimes cold. Women are not an exception and neither are you.” He let out a slight burst of laughter, as if all of this were his private joke. “Yes, I believe that I have seen dozens like you.”

“Then why did you bother to call?” She didn’t ask to defy him, truly. Emma never meant to be defiant and yet more often than not, she ended up giving sharp retorts when she felt endangered or angry. Defying a serial killer couldn’t be a smart thing to do. Perhaps Emma Swan was not such a smart girl after all.

There was something slightly dryer into Killian’s tone – that arrogant, honey-tone that could probably charm anyone into selling their souls. “Well, there’s nothing that makes sense about obsession.” He replied. “Desire follows no rule or law. Have a good day, Goldilocks.”

Emma let go of her phone when he hung up, as if it were the carrier of a deadly disease. She got out of her car and opened the front door of her house; it was unlocked.

“Neal?” She called out with a certain apprehension.

Instead when she stepped into the living room, she discovered an uncapped stick of red lipstick that lay on the carpet as evidence. The wall mirror had been scribbled on and the immediate sight of it chilled Emma’s blood.

The message painted on the glistening glass read: ‘Welcome’.


	7. Hunted

# Chapter 7: Hunted

_“I won’t stand in your way, let your hatred grow… and she’ll scream, and she’ll shout, and she’ll pray, and she had a name, yeah she had a name.”_

Muse, _Stockholm Syndrome_

…

“So you say that all you found was the note.”

“Yes. I was coming home, the door was unlocked and – there it was.” Graham looked at her fixedly for a while. “Aren’t you going to write down my statement?”

The first thing that Emma had done was actually calling the cops. It hadn’t hit her that maybe her ripper was watching her or that it was not a smart thing to do in the long run. There had been a murderer inside of her house, and when you feel that your life might be threatened, calling the police is the thing to do. Emma Swan still considered that she was a smart woman.

Graham let out a slight sigh, not a weary one, she didn’t actually know what to make of it. “The thing is, Emma, you’ve called to tell me that this was about the Driveway Ripper. Now, I will write down all you have to say and you can state that there was an intruder in your house, but I honestly don’t see why you would think it was Killian Jones.”

Emma assessed the look on the Sheriff’s face. She took it that he wasn’t being completely straight with her, and that was exactly because he knew that she wasn’t either.

She thought she would have to be very careful about the next words she would speak. “Maybe I am being a little paranoid.”

“When I first asked you about him, you didn’t hint that you were worried he might come after you.”

“I wasn’t. It’s just – what he wrote, it echoes with some of the things he’s told me during our visits, in prison.”

“What things?” Graham exhaled at her silence – he could have almost smiled, out of disbelief, but since he had started dating Regina Mills, he had not truly smiled again in his life. “The deal is simple here, Emma, if you want me to take you seriously, you’re going to have to stop being vague.”

The young woman clenched her jaw. She was so tired of making deals with people. “I’m not.” She argued. “I just – I’ve got a feeling that it’s him.”

“All right. Then I’m just going to ask you a few questions, and I hope that you’ll remember that obstructing the catch of a serial killer is a federal offense.”

Emma arched a brow, as if legal vocabulary would scare her now. As if she wasn’t already going through the scariest experience of her life.

“Killian Jones has made no attempt to contact you, since he’s escaped?”

“No.”

She didn’t feel guilty about lying. She was not protecting a wanted murderer, after all, she was only trying to catch him her own way. If there was the slightest chance that she could play Killian Jones, it needed to be by means that the police couldn’t know about. Because to earn the trust of a dark one, you have to get them to believe that you’ve gotten to be dark yourself. If she came clean to the sheriff, he would either stop her or ask to be kept informed, and that was exactly the kind of mistake that her Ripper would find out about. She thought that he might just hear her speak one word, and he would know.

Graham held her eyes and she had a hard time not lowering hers. “Okay, now you’re making me be the bad guy. What if I ask you something else, Emma. Earlier, you said that you found that note on your mirror when you were coming home. Coming home from where? I don’t see a grocery bag anywhere here, and you haven’t been to school in weeks.”

A look of startle painted Emma’s face. “You checked up on me?” She blamed herself for acting as though Graham was still that high school boy who liked following her home, calmly and actually without being shameful, as though it was the most natural thing in the world. She sighed and forced herself to look impassive. “I just wanted to take a drive.”

“Okay. Where did you go?”

“Nowhere. I just wanted to get out for a while.”

“Then I’m assuming if you have nothing to hide, you wouldn’t have a problem if I called here again to ask you a few more questions about your visits with Killian Jones. If your fiancé picked up and I told him the reason why I was calling, I suppose there would not be a problem with that.”

The look on his face remained of ice and Emma didn’t say anything, the way a cornered animal decides to go down with as much dignity as he’ll be allowed. Graham was always good at catching them. She remembered that in the schoolyard, in kindergarten, he used to pick up a small animal, a bug or a mouse, and he’d keep it in his pocket during class. She figured it made sense that he had grown up catching killers for a living, and that he could almost always tell when someone was lying to him, especially now – a cold nature can be an asset to detection, when some people stand in your way.

“It’s not personal, Emma.” He added unemotionally. “I just want you to tell me what you know that I don’t. The reason why I checked up on you was that I thought you may have caught our killer’s eye and that he might try to contact you again, and now I really think he has.”

Emma said nothing for a while. “So you’re not going to take my statement into account?”

“Not officially, no. I’ll report there’s been a breaking and entering, but I’d rather that Killian Jones got sloppier instead of more careful. He has every reason to leave town and if he didn’t, I want him to think that we think he did. Emma?” He said after a short pause. “If he contacts you or if you have any reason to think that he’s following you, I want you to tell me.”

“Of course.” She got up because she wanted this to be the end of their interview, but when she led him out, Graham turned around before reaching the door.

“Whatever it is you’ve undertaken, it’s safer that you stop. You’re never playing a killer, Emma, he’s always playing you.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Sure you don’t. Just try to be careful, Emma.”

“I will call you if I need you, Graham.” She said. “I trust that you’ll have my back.”

He smiled for a short moment. It was his first one in a while. “Well,” he admitted, “we all had a thing for the high school queen.”

…

Emma felt that the family dinner was more silent than usual. She was standing next to Neal, opposite her parents. Whenever she met Mary Margaret’s eyes, it seemed to her that she was going to smother with her mother’s worry. Her mom had never been the best person to keep a secret and Emma sometimes wished she hadn’t told her anything about her meetings with Killian Jones, because this one secret had to be eating at her, and she wanted her mother to be at peace.

“Well.” David Nolan said with a smile that Emma had always thought was the incarnation of charm and kindness. “The big day’s coming nearer. I hope you both aren’t too nervous.”

“No.” Emma said almost at the same time Neal answered “Not at all”, and she thought that there was something that sounded nervous about it exactly. She hoped she was the only one to hear it. “Mom helped me pick the wedding dress last week.” Emma added.

“Yes, it’s gorgeous, really.”

A silence followed Mary Margaret’s awkward assertion. Emma wished her mother were a better liar. “Well,” she said, putting on a smile, “I’m going to get dessert. Mom, come help me?”

Emma tried not to pay attention to the dubious look on her fiancé and her father’s faces when they disappeared in the kitchen. The young woman let out an apologetic breath when she met her mother’s eyes, once they were alone. “Look, I get that you’re worried about me, but I’m doing fine.”

“Worried? I’m not worried, Emma. I was worried during your first teenage parties, I was worried about alcohol and cigarettes and drugs, I am not worried about my daughter meeting with a deranged serial killer who is now on the run –”

Mary Margaret let out a sigh, and it actually wasn’t reproving but desperate. Emma always felt strange, when she realized how young her mother looked. This one evening, she felt guilty as hell.

“How could you not tell us about this, Emma? You embarked on this insane adventure all on your own, with no regards as to what it might do to you – people like this, people like the Driveway Ripper, they’re the kind that leave a mark on you.”

“I know that.” These days, that mark had felt very, very dark.

“What were you thinking?”

Emma bit her tongue when she realized she had almost answered with Killian Jones’s words – because in truth, she was only curious what would happen.

“I don’t know.” She admitted, and it must have sounded very confused because when her mother sighed again, it was a motherly sigh. Mary Margaret had gotten used to putting herself together when her daughter needed it. Sometimes, she thought that if she was hurt and that a look of terrible worry pervaded her daughter’s face, she might forget her pain entirely in order to calm her down.

“Emma, I just want you to be safe. These past few weeks you’ve been acting so off, and I thought it would help me just to know what was the cause, but it’s worse. I’m scared, Emma. Just please… tell me you’re not going to continue down that road.”

“I don’t see what you mean, mom.” She didn’t even fully register that she was lying. “Killian Jones is gone, and I’m not going to go near a prison again.”

The look of concern didn’t leave Mary Margaret’s face. She had always somehow been able to tell when something was wrong with Emma. There had always been this curious connection between both women, which was inexplicable biologically speaking. Emma did no longer try to explain irrational things. All she knew was that her mother was bright in her new state of darkness, her family and fiancé were still there and yet somehow, they couldn’t help her. They were all blurry from the water, above the surface of that other world that Emma had discovered.

Emma inhaled sharply. She was getting married in two weeks and she was going to go see Dr. Hopper to apologize for missing school. She was not covering the tracks of a serial killer, all that she wanted to do was catch him and she still thought she could. She did not feel _allegiance_ towards her Ripper.

And yet she was beginning to think that this sounded shallow, as shallow as the surface of the bright world. There had been a killer inside of her home and she had not told Neal, and he had a right to know. She was having phone conversations with a murderer on the run and Neal had a right to know. This was going too far. Part of her knew it.

But the obsession was always with her, like a bad habit, too strong to be shaken off. And so she only told her mother. “I’ll be careful, mom.”

“Just be safe, Emma.” Was the reply.

…

“Was it me, or did something strange happen at dinner?”

Emma frowned with fake incomprehension. She decided she was just as bad a liar as her mother. “I don’t see what you mean.”

“Well, your mom looked a bit sick and you were acting awkward.”

“Was I?”

The look that Neal gave her made Emma realize it was vain to try. He had probably known her too long for her to be able to fool him now.

“Just tell me, Em. Is it about the wedding?”

“Of course not.”

“Is everything okay with you?”

“Yes. I –” She sighed at how blatantly the lie had come out. “I’ve just got a lot on my mind, Neal.”

“Does that have to do with your visits at Storybrooke Penitentiary? You never told me why you stopped going.” He remarked.

Emma’s blood ran cold, just like that, as if while her fiancé was not aware that she was hiding something from him, she could convince herself that she wasn’t.

“Like you said.” She answered. “Visiting prisoners wasn’t the ideal pre-wedding activity.”

“I’m not saying I’m not relieved that you let it go. I just don’t know why.”

Emma met her fiancé’s eyes. She had always thought that his face was the most honest she had set eyes on, and it didn’t give her the will to lie to him. “We’re both going to be okay, Neal. I can’t tell you much more right now, but you need to trust me. All right?”

He let out a slight sigh, somehow not begrudging. “All right.”

…

Killian had never even had a thing for blondes. Emma Swan was his type just the same, of course, and if he hadn’t found her attractive right away when she had stepped inside his penitentiary it’s likely that he would have ultimately, following her as closely as he did – because there was something utterly alluring about her demeanor.

Watching her and her boyfriend make love that evening, it seemed as clear as could be.

Emma’s home address had been the easiest thing to find. Storybrooke was a small village and when you looked for someone hard enough there, it was only a matter of time, and usually a short one, before you found them. Killian wasn’t unaware that this may also apply to him. Every cop in this town was looking for him, and he was not so eager to go back to jail.

Killian Jones’s conduct had never been described as smart, technically speaking, he had not done everything in his power not to get caught and if he had he would not have been. The women that he had killed were all women that he had been with. Seducing them had been part of his hunt, and the last one had been quite a climax. Due to the atmosphere of terror and wariness that dominated Storybrooke before his arrest, she had made his task most difficult and ultimately her surrender had been by far the most enjoyable. It was one stage very dear to Killian. Another was the look of betrayal on the women’s faces when he took off his mask.

His last woman had been beautiful. She had a French name. _Belle_. He had driven to the border of Canada with her body in the trunk of his car and buried her under a pile of snow.

His current behavior was not a great deal smarter, in fact, not at all. Staying so close to Storybrooke was bound to put him back on the police’s radar at some point, and his obsession with Emma Swan, however legitimate, would not help him to stay out of prison. But Killian had always gone for the most exciting option and at the time being, it was that golden-haired student of his. It did not matter that he was caught by justice. Killian did not think through such common terms. He had once fancied to charm young women and murder them, and now what he fancied was Emma Swan.

He had been suspicious of it for some time, and when he had stepped inside her home for the first time, he had been sure. He had discovered her universe and felt his predatory instincts awaken, he had opened her drawers without being hurried, stroked the immaculate cover of her double bed, and he had known that she had become his new game. He didn’t see the point in going against it.

Killian shifted slightly in his position. Emma Swan’s house was just at the edge of a small wood which Killian had immediately noticed, thinking that it would be a fine advantage for the second stage of his enterprise – observation.

He watched through the window of her bedroom from afar, and currently he was presented with a beautiful view on her back. He had always wondered what normal couple life was like. Deep inside of himself, Killian felt like an antipathetic boy trying to dissect romance.

He didn’t wait until Emma’s fiancé was asleep before he called. He wanted her to know he had been watching.

And she seemed to know it, somehow. She heard the telephone ring once, and he saw her body tense as if she had been immersed in iced water. Very, very dark waters. She had barely caught her breath from her recent activities and Killian thought this was good. He wanted to hear the breathlessness in her voice. He wanted her to feel that there was no safety or reprieve for her anymore, that she could not hide anywhere and not even in her fiancé’s arms.

To own someone, you need to be the monster they dream of and the darkness that surrounds them. You need to become both their jailer and their cage.

She picked up, clutching the sheets against her chest, and the fiancé seemed to grow concerned at her side. The couple didn’t look like good match at all to Killian. The boy was the image itself of plainness and could never understand half of the woman he was about to marry.

Killian understood. The woman knew and probably hated him for it.

Emma picked up and he heard her let out a breath. It sounded scared and ragged and incomprehensive, because without being able to explain why, she had known it was him calling.

Killian straightened the binoculars to zoom in on Emma’s face. He paid no attention to the fiancé.

“The White Swan or the Black Swan?” He said to begin with.

He heard her drag in a breath again. She was probably trying to reason with herself and failing. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Well, it seems to me that you’re caught between the two. You’ve seen a bit of my world now and while you’re dancing between the darkness and the light like a ballerina, I don’t think you have an idea how close you are from the fall – and once you’ve fallen, love, the choice is definitive.”

He watched her clench her jaw. You had to respect the woman’s spirit. It got him feeling a bit awed, looking at her unbroken temper. He couldn’t decide whether his aim was to save her or break her. Maybe he would only stop her in her deadly prance to set her on fire and watch her burn.

“Let me put it in different words. You’ve been playing with me, love, and I don’t want you to think that I mind – no, it’s been quite swell, really. But as smart as you think you are, I think you know that you can’t play me without getting played as well. You’ve been dipping your toes in the water and now it’s difficult to stop, isn’t it? They are fine waters, yes. It’s difficult for me, too. Answer my question now, Goldilocks. The White Swan or the Black Swan?”

“Where are you?”

“You know where I am. I’ve been with you ever since you walked out of my prison, and you’ve been with me, and I’m not getting out of your skin until you’ve gotten out of mine. There’s no more time to hesitate now, sweetheart, you’ve just run out, I’ll warn you – no good comes out of wandering in a world that isn’t yours. It’ll make you his, soon enough. White or Dark, Emma? It’s about time you stopped pretending.”

He watched her straighten up on her bed. Her fiancé had to be going wild but she looked straight ahead, out her window, until although Killian knew she could not see him, it felt like she did. His mouth broke into a smile.

“Dark it is.” He concluded.

The next second, she hung up on him.


	8. What She Wished For

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: I apologize for how long it took me to update again, I’ve had little time for myself these days, and I would also like to thank you all for the amazing feedback! Reviews are always what reminds me that I’ve got this story going on ; )

# Chapter 8: What She Wished For

 

**…**

_‘Last thing I remember, I was running for the door, I had to find the passage back to the place I was before. “Relax said the night man, we are programmed to receive. You can check out anytime you like, but you can never leave!”’_

_Hotel California_

…

There are a number of things that can make you quit on an addiction. It all depends on how deep in you are, really. To Emma Swan, it had been quite simple.

Weeks ago, she had decided to study darkness and had realized that when you look long enough into it, it looks back at you. Her obsession with the absurdity of Killian Jones’s world had stopped her from going back to hers, because she was uncertain she could ever return to the person that she had been for the first two decades of her life.

Now, this thought made no difference. She was quite certain that if she did not give this up at once, nothing would ever matter for her again. Realizing just how close she was from perdition had been a wakeup call, to Emma Swan. She could not both play the Ripper’s game and plan her wedding, even in the sake of catching him. She could not be Neal’s girl and remain caught between two worlds.

If she did not bury that obsession in the ground, it was going to bury her.

To realize that a deranged serial killer had witnessed her intimate life had been a fine proof of that. There were two weeks left before the wedding and Emma thought that it was high time she let it go.

She went back to college and apologized sincerely to Mr. Hopper. After that, things slowly seemed to be going back on tracks. She spent an hour testing cake fillings with her fiancé, one afternoon, and almost felt like a regular person.

When she saw her mother during their weekly rendezvous at Granny’s, Mary Margaret let out a sigh that Emma could not believe she had been holding back all this time.

“I was so worried about you, Emma. I know you said you were fine, but just to see you going back to normal – I’m so relieved that this is over.”

“You haven’t told dad, have you?”

“Your father doesn’t need my help to be able to tell that something’s off with you.” She gave it a moment’s thought. “Well all right, maybe guessing that you’ve met with a loose killer would require explicitness –”

“Please mom, would you lower your tone?” It wasn’t as if gossips didn’t travel fast in Storybrooke.

“I’m just happy you’re better, Emma.”

The young woman didn’t go against her mother’s statement. She was better. She may sleep with the drapes shut and check that the door was locked several times during the night, it felt as if maybe things would go back to their natural course if she forced them to. She no longer took calls from unknown numbers and she was determined to abandon her obsession to seek out Killian Jones, should the latter be most reluctant to reciprocate the favor.

That evening she came home around five and found her fiancé in the living room. There was a stew cooking in the kitchen, Neal had always been the one who did the cooking and she had always enjoyed sharing meals with him – right now though, the slightly cold look on his face reminded her of the incident last week. The last time that Killian had called her in the middle of the night, Neal had gone out of control with worry, because she was visibly affected by the caller and still she refused to disclose his name.

Emma bit down on a sigh. She thought there was not a worse timing to fight with your fiancé than just a few weeks before D day.

“How was work?” She inquired. She was becoming quite the expert at pretending all was well.

“As usual. And school?”

“Okay. Mr. Hopper agreed to let me take another exam, I should be fine. My mother says hi.” She added, because it seemed he was not so determined to continue with small talk.

The worst of it was, she knew it was legitimate for him to be angry. If someone had called him and put him in such a state, she would want an explanation as well. She simply could not deliver one.

She started wishing she had never been curious about what went on in a killer’s mind. She wished she had never set eyes on Killian Jones and, far more to the point, that he had never set eyes on her. Now was a bit late for second thoughts.

“I love you.” She said, and it drew a sigh out of her fiancé, almost drained from resent.

“Jesus, Em. We’ve had ups and downs before and I’ve seen you in many states, but the way that you’ve been acting these past weeks – how am I supposed to let it go without an explanation?”

“Because it’s over.” She answered right away. But it’s not what the obsessive part of her thought about it. Since Emma had categorically refused to go anywhere that absurd road again, obsession had seemed to grow a voice and a will of its own.

Neal wouldn’t understand, even if she explained it. He wouldn’t understand, because the quest was as absurd as the result. She had been a happy woman with loving parents and a wonderful fiancé, and she had woken up one morning and decided to put an end to it.

Of course, she could find excuses for herself and she had gathered a number of them. She could not have known what her meeting with Killian Jones would lead to. She could not have predicted his escape or his obsession for her. But even so… she could have stopped. This much was becoming undeniable. After meeting with the notorious murderer, she could have never stepped foot in the prison again. Her teacher and the eerie prison warden seemed determined that prison was not a befitting world for her, and there was truly no reason why she had so endeavored to prove them wrong.

She could have stopped.

When Killian had called her that first time in the middle of the night, she could have called Sheriff Graham and told him everything. Instead of throwing herself in a game of hunting with a serial killer, she could have let it go. There was no telling why she hadn’t. Just like, right now, even though this had been the most alienating experience of her life and she had no desire to return to it, she was afraid she might.

There was no way that her fiancé could understand that. She was probably too dark for him now. With that look of concern and honest love on his face, he did not seem to agree.

“Do you swear?” He asked.

“Yes.” She replied without thinking, because Neal had a right to his peace of mind and she thought she was saying the truth anyhow.

He looked down and only half looked convinced, but she believed he would let it go – if he honestly believed it was in the past and that she was safe, he might let it go.

She smiled at him and he smiled back, one second all was right in the world and the next it was coming apart. The sound of her telephone ring started acutely from the bottom of her purse and Emma’s eyes went to it directly. She nearly forgot about her fiancé’s presence until he inquired. “Aren’t you going to answer that?”

She wouldn’t have, normally. But although Neal’s tone was anything but challenging, it felt like she should show a casual behavior. She picked up her phone and swallowed nervously. It was an unknown number.

“Miss Swan.”

The voice that greeted her at the other end of the line was not Killian’s, which was a relief, however it drew goose bumps on her skin and filled her with an icy cold, as was the usual effect that the warden of Storybrooke Penitentiary had on her.

“Mr. Gold.” She replied. There was an uneasy ring to it as always and she was quite sure that he caught it. Neal’s brows furrowed during the conversation and she did her best not to make note of it. She thought that she really ought to be cordial to her interlocutor – her habits as a well-educated girl had been quick to come back. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“It is actually business I am concerned about.” He answered on such a casual tone that she could not find his answer threatening. “Something about our previous meetings and that I would not see fit to handle over the phone. If you would be so kind as to grant me an hour of your time, I would be most grateful, Miss Swan – truly, very grateful.”

Emma waited for a moment and knew it looked like hesitation. She did not have a remote wish to return the prison, she thought it might be unhinging to her newly recovered stability if not dangerous. And yet part of her knew she would agree. It was the polite thing to do, really.

“Of course.” She said ultimately.

“I most appreciate it. Shall we say – around six?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll see you then, Miss Swan.”

Emma hung up her phone and turned it off. Neal was studying her thoroughly. “That was the prison warden, for your thesis.”

“That’s right.” She answered although he had not made it sound like a question.

“What does he want to see you for?”

“I don’t know. Probably just a matter of formalities.”

“You’re not seeing a prisoner again.”

This one got a full sigh out of her. “Come on, Neal. It’s not like I’m hiding a lover.”

“Not at all,” he agreed, “you’re doing a terrible job at hiding him.”

The pair stared at each other for a moment and her lips broke into a smile – she had known Neal for too long, so that any distrust between them could only seem ludicrous.

…

On the next day she drove to the prison, after class. The road was far too familiar and it brought anxiety on its way, not that Emma believed it was justified, at the time. She would find out what the warden wanted with her and she would drive back home, and never set a foot in this institution again.

Mr. Gold greeted her with an amiable smile. There was truly something disturbing about the thin line of his lips and the way the ends always seemed to want to go down, even when he forced them up. She was quite certain there was nothing more unnatural in the world than the warden’s smile. But that was just irrational thinking.

“Miss Swan, thank you again for coming. Please, do sit down.”

Although she did not wish to comply and every passing second made her more uncomfortable, she took a seat on the chair opposite his desk. She had forgotten how strange the atmosphere of this office was. How it did not feel like a place of professional interactions or even business, but truly a place of power. Atypical power. Absolute, somehow.

“Well.” He started. “It’s been quite some time since our last interview. I’ve been wondering what you had made of the short time you had been granted with Killian Jones’s cell mate, as I recall you were quite determined for it to happen.”

“Right.” Emma pondered on how to approach this for a moment. “Actually, much like you have suggested, there was not much to draw from the conversation.”

“May I ask where the remnants of your investigation led you?”

Emma felt very uneasy that he mentioned it. She was hoping to indulge in the lie that she had never gone to this prison without a solely professional purpose in mind. “I found it safer to end it.”

Another smile settled on Adam Gold’s lips. This time, genuinely amused – in between amusement and sheer coldness.

“And what about our deal, dearie?”

The direct question brought incomprehension, strengthened by the unusual appellation. “I don’t see what you mean.”

“No? When you walked in here and asked to meet with Maddox Jefferson, I told you that every agreement needed a quid pro quo. Actually, when you first asked to have regular interviews with one of my prisoner, I have also underlined, I believe, that this would work on a bit of give and take. And yet I fear you have failed to fulfill your end of the deal, in many ways.”

“Excuse me?”

“You were to give me reports about the insight that your meetings with Killian Jones provided, you have not. You were to inform me of anything you found out about his whereabouts or his intentions, after his escape, something which you have also failed to achieve.”

“I don’t think these were the exact terms of our agreement.”

The coldness in Emma’s voice seemed to enlarge the grin on the warden’s face. “I am not mistaken. I have made you several favors which you did not reciprocate, in other words, your debt to me has amounted to quite a sum. I’m afraid you must start paying.”

Startle was all that Emma experienced for a moment, before rationality crept in – the short man sitting opposite her held no power over her and it was not really as though, through the course of spoken agreements, she had sold him her soul.

“I’m sorry for the misunderstanding.” Was all she found to reply.

He did not smile this time. For some reason, it was disturbing. Emma had never been comfortable in the man’s presence and deep down she had always felt that he was not simply an honest citizen, but she had known this in the irrational part of her mind – which of course, was not the truth.

To see the smile off Mr. Gold’s face was like bringing down the curtain on a pretense. Like being at the theater and suddenly having one of the actors turn to the audience and say: I see you.

You knew they were acting, of course. But their acknowledgement of it makes yours inevitable.

“There was no misunderstanding.” He affirmed. The turn of his lips was no longer forced upwards and the look in his eyes was dark. “The reason that I allowed you to breathe the air circulating in my prison was that I believed you could amuse our dear Ripper into revealing details about his crimes. After his escape, I had suspicions that he might try and contact you. I have spoken to Jefferson myself a few minutes after you left the visitation room, and he gave me quite a speech about your game of hide and seek. Do believe, Miss Swan, that I never do anything that is not in my own interest. Did you think I was simply tolerant of your curiosity?”

A smile stretched his lips again, but this time, it was not just unsettling – the farthest thing from his mind was to appear as a Good Samaritan. It was a smile that belonged to terrible wonder worlds and dark sea creatures, a smile that belonged to what Emma had decided was the imaginary half of the world.

It was wicked. Maybe only because of the horrified look on the young woman’s face.

“You have been lying lavishly these days, dearie, which would not be so bad if you were being precautious about it. I believe that if I ask you whether or not you have been in contact with Killian Jones since his escape, you will tell me no, but if I make an anonymous call to the Storybrooke police and claim that you have, they will find several calls through your phone records that come from a remote phone booth or an untraceable number, and you will be quite incapable of telling them the identity of the caller. Just as well, if I call the press tomorrow and tell them that you and I have been working on catching Jones, one particular Ripper might get slightly cross. Really… _you_ were mistaken if you believed that I did not own you, from the very moment that you walked through these gates.”

Startle kept Emma silent. For a moment, she was only surprised, not by the threat, but by the fact that the man she had met several times cordially was evil, and she had somehow managed to convince herself that she did not know it. She thought that just because he had been smiling and polite, she had buried the discomfort that he naturally summoned. And she thought that if a charming stranger had politely made conversation and offered to drive her home one day, even if the town had been terrorized by a murder wave, she might have let him.

She truly thought she was not any less blind than at the beginning or more cautious than any of Killian Jones’s victims. Perhaps because not to be would involve acknowledging that the world was not so normal as she had once thought – and it was about time she started believing.

She clenched her jaw as harshly as if she were made of iron. “You’re blackmailing me.”

The warden’s smile became polite again. “I’m just a regular business man, my dear. All I want is Killian Jones, back in my prison, something which I’m sure you agree on. Our interests may still be common for some time to come, why not make the most of it?”

Emma Swan said nothing, but deep down inside of her, she thought that this was punishment. She thought that real wonder lands were not so wonderful as they were painted to be.

She thought she had first walked in here to find out what prison does to a normal mind, and she had got her wish.


	9. The Tide Rises

Time was still as Emma caught herself thinking of the beginning, the start of that new life that had started when she’d stepped through the gate of that prison in her tight skirt and her high heels, thinking – exactly what had she been thinking? – that she would be the same person when she’d step out, that she would write her assignment and marry Neal and life would be as bright as it had ever been.

_Why did I do it?_ She thought to herself, sitting in her car, still parked in front of Mr. Gold’s penitentiary. _Everyone was telling me to be cautious, what was I trying to prove, what did I fight for?_

For the first time, she wondered if it had been enough for her, what she had. Two loving parents. A boyfriend she loved. A comfortable life. Now that her life had turned into a world of nightmare, it was all too easy to turn her past one into a dream. _But was it enough for me,_ really _? Would I have stepped inside that prison if it had been?_

“Did I bring this on myself?” She said out loud, to the empty air around her.

If Killian Jones were there, hiding in the backseat of her vehicle, he would answer, _Yes_. It was frightening, being so used to his voice – through glass at the prison, on the phone – that she could now hear it in her mind, guess his replies even when she was alone. _We all make a choice sooner or later, Goldilocks_. _If you’d been right as those teenage parents and that silly fiancé of yours, you wouldn’t have felt drawn to me at all_. _It takes a black soul to feel the calling of another. You were the_ Black Swan _from the very start_.

“No,” her shrill voice tearing the flimsy fabric of silence, “no.”

What was she to do now? Go to the police, tell them everything? Playing Mr. Gold’s games was sickening, not only because he’d have power over her but because it would feel still like a further step into that world of darkness she was desperate to leave behind. _I’d become another puppet on his show, and he’d pull the strings when he wanted me to dance with the rest._ But if he told the press they’d both been trying to fool Killian Jones, if that loose killer decided to retaliate –

“No,” she said again, to herself. “He’d be compromising himself as well as me. Everyone here knows everyone. Any reporter who published this would know they’d be placing me at risk. And even if they did publish it, Gold knows Killian doesn’t trust him. That’s why he used me in the first place.” Realization came to her as a breath of fresh air, thrust like a dagger into her lungs, both painful and a relief. “He was bluffing.”

Yes. Yes, Emma thought to herself again, everything falling so simply into place, maybe because she wanted it, because she was afraid she’d go mad – as a hatter – if it didn’t.

Adam Gold posed no real threat to her. Really, she had been a fool to sit there intimidated in his office as if he could actually expose her if, as if she’d done something wrong. In truth, it was probably that she’d been thrown off by how plainly, unashamedly malevolent Mr. Gold was, or she would have never let him treat her like a criminal. He hadn’t acted as if a criminal were exactly what she was, but it’d been implied, in that playful twist of a grin, that he had something on her – _that it was_ DARK – that she wouldn’t want her loved ones to find it out.

“I’ve broken no law,” she said, to no jury at all, to her empty car and her own gaze reflected in the rearview mirror. “Everything I did, I did to help the police catch a killer, for the safety of all and for my peace of mind.”

The words felt better out loud than in her head, their reality balancing with the slick whisper of Killian’s voice in her brain – _White or Black, Emma?_ So composed and charming, as if she’d had a choice, as if we each got a say in the colors that we were born with.

A bottle of water was lying forgotten on the backseat, and Emma grabbed it and tried not to make a mess of pouring some in her palm and dabbing face with it. The water was warm and didn’t do much to help with the red heat flooding her cheeks and collar. Turning on the ignition, she rolled the windows down, the slight summer breeze filled the car, and she was slowly able to collect herself.

Mr. Gold really didn’t have much to go on, and she couldn’t bring herself to feel afraid of the Storybrooke police led by Will Graham storming her house to arrest her one evening. But the threat Gold might pose to her personal life was a different matter. It was only a minute by the time Emma realized she’d have to come clean to Neal. If she persisted with her lie, all it would take would be a phone call for Gold to do the damages he deemed necessary for his ridiculous revenge.

_He’d not call it revenge_ , said a voice inside Emma’s head. _You’ve broken a contract, as far as he’s concerned, he’d be_ compensating _himself_.

Emma didn’t really care what word he used. It was evil. Mr. Gold was an evil person. Accepting what he’d asked of her, returning to her plans to try to manipulate Killian now, would not only be dangerous. It’d be wrong.

“I don’t want wrong,” aloud again, for whatever reason. “I want Neal. I want happy. I want good. I want normal.”

But there was that voice, creeping in again, that Emma couldn’t block out. _Do I, do I? Is it enough for me, would I be here if it was?_

Then another, worse than her own. Killian’s. It was smooth and cold like the hungry waves of a black ocean. _Do you feel the tide rising, Goldilocks, inside of you? Can you feel them, the sweet promises of oblivion, of washing away life as you knew it, of purging your mind of what you thought was true? It’s rising inside of me, too._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this is a short chapter and it’s been years (literally, I think) since I’ve updated, but I really want to get back into this story. I’m finding short updates more interesting now and this was a good way for me to get back in the game. I promise for the next chapter you’ll have the confrontation between Neal and Emma and some Killian ; ). Thanks again for all the wonderful reviews that have kept this story going.


	10. Mine

 

Neal took the news with such utter shock that Emma was suddenly able to envision how he would react to some unpredicted, terrible incident. _This is how he would look_ , she thought despite herself, _if he learned I’d been killed in an accident, if I left him at the altar_.

Guilt was an un-melting stone inside her throat, refusing to move or soften. She could measure, then, the full impact of what she’d done to him.

“My God,” he only said, looking at her without even the slightest warmth of recognition. “My God.”

Emma felt like a stranger, suddenly, standing with her fiancé, in their bedroom, only weeks away from their wedding.

It was a quarter past eight p.m. After spending an hour, maybe more than that, sitting in her car, in front of Storybrooke Penitentiary, Emma had driven home and found Neal upstairs, digging through his half of the bedroom closet. He’d turned back at her with the charming smile she had fallen for in high school and said, “I was just checking out my suit – you know, for the big day. No peeking now. I know it’s usually only the wedding dress that’s bad luck, but considering the last few weeks we’ve had, we better not take any chances.”

For a second, Emma had felt she might burst into a fit of helpless, irrepressible crying, but she’d just stared at him, numb, nearly cold. And then it’d all started coming out. From the beginning. Seeing Killian at the prison. His escape, and the phone calls. Why she’d kept them a secret, that she’d foolishly thought she’d be able to help find him. Then finally Mr. Gold’s blackmail. She spared him no details.

“I’m sorry,” she said, when he had fallen silent for several minutes. “I’m so sorry, Neal, sorrier than you know. If I could take it all back, never bring any of this into our lives, I swear –”

“The man who called you. The other night, when we were making love, that phone call that put in such a state.”

“Yes.”

“It was him. The Driveway Ripper. Killian Jones.”

“Yes,” she said again, guilty as charged, seeing no point in denying.

“Oh, my God.” His head was in his hands, brown uneven strands slipping between his fingers.

“You can hate me, I’d understand.” She said, horrified herself at the lack of emotion in her voice. _I’m just locking it all inside, putting his feelings ahead of mine_. It failed to reassure or convince her. It was like watching two actors who looked like her and Neal say these things, stand there, in their shoes. Suddenly, Emma saw herself calling her friends and parents to tell them the wedding was off, yes, they were very sorry for the inconvenience; people would be so unhappy to have to get refunds for the gifts. It would be long and tedious, all those phone calls, maybe a whole day. Still there was no desperate turmoil in her heart, Emma met the thought with a quietness that was like a smooth layer of frost. It would only be an actress, calling those people, like the one who was talking to Neal right now. In another, realer layer of reality, she and her high school sweetheart would still be getting married.

“Hate you?” Neal said. “Em, I’m just – I’m trying to think of just one reason why you didn’t want to tell me. Why you would go through this alone – I’m trying to understand how you _could_. How you could bear to receive secret phone calls from a loose killer and lie by my side at night and not say anything.” He let out an exhale that was sheer shock. “Baby, since I’ve met you, I haven’t been alone. For over ten years, you’ve known every thought that’s crossed my mind. When Granny’s diner added apricot pie to their breakfast menu, when that guy at work got engaged, you didn’t _know_ him but I told you, I never thought of not telling you.”

That stone in her throat was not thawing even a little. Emma tried to swallow past it. “I know what you’re saying.”

And yet, part of her couldn’t. Because she was telling him she’d gotten to know an internationally famous killer and what shocked him most was that their bubble of collusion had been shaken, that for a few weeks they hadn’t been in exactly the same universe. And it was for the best that they hadn’t. Emma’s world had gotten very dark lately and she would have hated herself for dragging Neal down.

_But that’s not the real reason_.

 No, Emma knew it wasn’t, now that she’d come clean, now that Neal was looking at her with such blatant incomprehension: how distant he felt from her, as if they were each standing on two different poles of the earth. It wasn’t to protect him that she’d lied. It was because of how the unseeing look on Neal’s face tainted the truth, that awful world Emma had discovered and which had claimed her, despite what she or anyone else wanted. _I didn’t tell him because that place was mine_.

Emma clenched her teeth, stiffened her resolve. To hell with this. Wasn’t Neal entitled to half of everything?

“To go through all this,” he said, shaking his head, still with incomprehension but hurt was making its way in as well. “By yourself – how could you, darling? I would have been there for you, I would have done so much more. We’d have weathered it together. You didn’t have to be alone.”

Finally, Emma felt the icy cage inside her begin to crack. “Oh, Neal.” It wasn’t the thought of how wonderful he was or how dearly she loved him. What truly got to her defenses, what made her crave for the embrace he locked her into just a moment later, was that pit of distance still there between them. Because however he might want to, Neal couldn’t cross over to that world where Emma had been her own prisoner, for the past weeks.

The tears she cried against his chest that evening were vain and burning. Not telling Neal had also been an excuse not to see that there was no hope he might take her back – back to the world where things were bright and they were in love and fine. _If he can’t take me back and I can’t draw him in, where does that leave us? Just where are we headed?_

 

…

 

From his habitual spot, in the woods, Killian was watching as the young couple fell into each other’s arms, as the woman who’d been his latest obsession buried her head against her fiancé’s chest; the look on her face was impressively lucid.

“It’s too late, much too late,” Killian said to himself, to her. “He can’t touch you now, darling. You know that.”

How did that song go again? It had been playing, after he’d killed that last girl, when he was driving to the place where he would bury her, the music on the radio filling his car. _I’ve put a spell on you. And now –_

“You’re mine.” Killian chuckled. “That’s right.” The temptation to linger a little longer was tugging at him, but he’d been there already for almost an hour. Now was no time to stop being careful. “Goodbye, Goldilocks,” he whispered, putting his binoculars away. “We’ll see each other again soon, I promise you. You can be my something borrowed. I’ll be your something new.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed this. The lyrics at the end are from “I Put a Spell on You” by Jay Hawkins. Please leave a comment to tell me what you thought, I’m always so happy about these ; ). See you soon with another update.


	11. The Last Warning

When Emma woke up that morning there was just one thing on her mind, two words easy as hello. One week. For what felt like an eternity, the wedding had only been weeks away but now there was not even that reassuring plural. No more _weeks_. Just the one.

Really, it wasn’t as if Emma was having second thoughts. On the contrary. Marrying Neal and fulfilling her high school fantasy was about what she wanted most in the world, right now. Those quiet days, drinking her orange juice and breakfast while he read the paper, always smiling when he met her eyes and letting it last a few seconds before he resumed reading. Him dropping her off to the University on his way to work, calling each other during their lunch break and watching Stephen Colbert while heating some dish of frozen lasagna in the oven at night.

_This is what I choose_ , she said to herself, tying her long hair in front of the mirror. She was dressed already and Neal was waiting in the kitchen. The smell of eggs and bacon carrying from the kitchen felt to Emma like the unmistakable essence of normality. There was nothing more she wanted than to go back to it and stay there safely for the years she had left to live.

And yet there was this strange, oppressive sense of foreboding, whenever she thought about the wedding…

“Things okay, Em?” Neal asked her before dropping her off. She’d already opened the car door and a bright beam of sunlight fell warmly on her shoulder, bare but for the thin strap of her summer dress. White, flowery material. Not what looked best on her but, since recently, she’d deliberately avoided wearing red or black.

“I’m fine.” She didn’t force on a bright smile as she might have before she told him. In truth, it was really _after_ she came clean to Neal that her past behavior truly struck her as lying. _I won’t make the same mistake again_ , she’d sworn to herself. _My wedding vows won’t only include love and loyalty but honesty, before all_.

“Okay,” he repeated, lines drawing near the edge of his eyes, with a smile that showed acceptance if not full convincing. “I’ll see you tonight.”

“I love you,” she said, and when she started walking up the sunny stone steps of her University, thought of how those words had become a sort of a ritual, that might mean _Goodnight_ or _Have a nice day_ or any number of thing beside their original meaning.

Emma remembered what one of her teachers had said in class earlier that week. _Language is a series of codes that works on a set of keys. I find you attractive becomes: can I buy you a drink? When was the last time you said a thing and meant that thing precisely?_

There was no time for Emma to push the thought further as, just a second later, her cell phone started buzzing from the bottom of her purse. Answering the phone hadn’t become so difficult, since she’d decided not to enter Killian’s game anymore. If the call was from an unknown number, she simply let it ring, with a tight nervous knot in her stomach, like an animal playing dead when it’s being poked. She had just reached the entrance of the University when she picked up her phone and checked the ID.

Though she could recognize the number, Emma wasn’t any more inclined to answer. Storybrooke Penitentiary. Her last conversation with Mr. Gold still made the golden hairs in her neck stiffen, however warm a morning it was – June was giving way to July.

_You were mistaken if you believed I did not own you, from the very moment you walked through these gates_.

Emma shook her head to clear it from the ominousness of his words. “Lunatic,” she said while turning her phone off. Though the next few days would be busy with last-minute preparations for the wedding, she vowed to have her number changed by the end of the week.

 

…

 

When class ended at 4 p.m., Emma was pleasantly distracted from any troubling thoughts. They’d been studying the blurring of individual responsibility under certain circumstances, the will disappearing when surrounded by a mob, how something in us yearns to obey authority figures. Exciting, really. Emma couldn’t tell how she had ever been bored, bored enough to think prison would be an interesting environment to learn about – it hadn’t just been boredom, of course, but curiosity, complacence.

Emma willed her thoughts back on today’s classes, resolute to steer away from trouble. “Just one more week,” she whispered through her teeth, although the wedding was still cloaked with this strange gloom, like a warning you’re bound not to make out until it’s too late to make a difference.

It wasn’t really the ceremony that scared her as such, but the thought she and Neal might not get there, for whatever reason. In truth, Emma Swan had a bad, very bad feeling about the coming week, that made it so the thought of her and Neal being pronounced man and wife seemed dream-like, absurdly surreal. Them smiling nervously at each other while holding hands and chuckling their way through a kiss, he’d probably tip her down to make it look like a romantic comedy – no, that felt about as likely to Emma’s mind as it would be to soar from the stone steps at the front of the University and fly home amidst the birds and butterflies.

Every moment they were together now, sitting opposite each other for dinner, watching a film on television, with his hand on her thigh, even making love couldn’t break that flimsy sense of irreversible distance between them, as if they were separated by an invisible veil that secretly ran as deep as the ocean. As if they lived in the same house but they were really universes apart. The wedding was such an ideal way of bridging these two different worlds that Emma found it almost too obvious to be true, too easy to be possible.

Soon, though, these thoughts came to an abrupt stop, and shock hit Emma like such a punch in the stomach, she couldn’t even think of being grateful for the distraction.

Looking as dark as ever in his coal-black suit, a sort of anomaly on such a sunny afternoon, Adam Gold was standing very straight at the bottom of the steps, in front of the University. Though he was shorter than her even without heels, his presence was impossible to overlook, threateningly majestic, like an impish black shadow on a bright wall.

Emma stopped as if her legs had suddenly turned to stone.

The look on the prison warden’s face was as grave as it had been during their last conversation. The thin, nearly invisible line of his lips didn’t show the slightest inclination to grin. He just stood there, looking at her, his hands folded behind his back, serious as death and just as silent.

There was power in him, she suddenly felt, power that wasn’t of this world, power that shouldn’t be trifled with.

For a moment, Emma was incapable of breaking free from his gaze, she stood petrified, horrified, until some unknown student bumped into her on his way down the stone steps and Mr. Gold’s spell was broken.

“What are you doing here?” She inquired, with no regard for politeness. He would hear that she was frightened, she could hear it herself, but that wasn’t the most important thing to consider.

“Well, Miss Swan.” His voice was possibly colder than his smile-less face. “You’ve not been returning my calls. There is an urging matter for us to talk about. Shall we go someplace else, or will this do?”

“I won’t go anywhere with you.” Emma answered with growing confidence. It was invigorating to stop being cordial with this man, to start saying no to him. “And I’m not interested in anything you have to say.”

The area around them was slowly emptying. For whatever reason, the sun shining brightly in the sky did nothing to reassure Emma – and it would have, recently. Before that prison assignment, before Killian, Emma would have felt quite certain that nothing wrong could happen to her in such a sunny setting, in the middle of the afternoon.

Now, caution made her muscles feel like taut wires, her fingers clenched tightly around the strap of her purse. It contained her computer as well as a few books. It might be heavy enough to serve as a weapon.

“Then this shall be the last we’ll see of each other,” he said, which somehow didn’t sound like such good news as it should have. “That is, if you won’t reconsider seeing through your end of our deal, one last time. I won’t warn you again.”

“What need is there for you to warn me?”

Adam Gold chuckled. His lank hair swung slightly against his cheek. “Oh, I’m not the sort of man I’d advise you to break a deal with. Deals are important, dearie. Many people – important people – make deals with me. If I allowed those who cheat their way out of one to go on without any repercussions, you can see how badly it would reflect on my reputation. I’ve got no intention of doing such a thing.”

“And what will you do?” Emma’s voice didn’t falter somehow, didn’t show weakness. She actually took a step forward. “Call the police? Be my guest. See how far it gets you. Then you can call my parents, I suppose, give my family a fright – but that’s a little pathetic as far as retribution goes.”

Then Mr. Gold _was_ smiling, and Emma thought there was something reptilian, _crocodilian_ , about that grin. “Miss Swan, I don’t think you’ve quite measured how influential a man I can be… It isn’t in your best interest to underestimate your enemies. It’s extremely easy for me to come across personal information on whomever I’m interested in – such things are easy, dear, when you have ways, as I do.” But he didn’t mean _ways_ , Emma thought despite herself. He meant _people_. “And then, it isn’t hard to make sure such information gets passed on to individuals who might have an interest in them – dangerous individuals.”

“That’s enough insinuation, don’t you think?” She snapped. “Why don’t you be plain?”

Mr. Gold chuckled. “I do apologize if you have trouble catching my meaning. I forget you’re only a student – the people I deal with are generally more experienced. Still, I’ll ask you to make an effort to understand me, without having to spell it out to you – do you think it’s in your range, Miss Swan? It’ll be but a few more minutes of concentration.”

Emma felt the sudden need to send him to hell, him and his scornful condescension. Then two very strange thoughts crossed her mind, one after the other. The first was that she wanted to push him, hard, and watch him fall down those steps and break his skull against the stone ground. The second was that, if Killian Jones could hear them right now, he’d never tolerate Mr. Gold disrespecting her like that.

“I’ll give you one more week to think it over,” the warden went on. “If I’ve not heard from you after that, I’ll consider you’ve broken our deal – and that you’re in my debt. In such a case, I’ll be forced to make an example out of you. Do be careful about the choices you’ll make, dearie. This is supposed to be such a happy time for you. It’d be a shame for the wrong people to follow you on your honeymoon.”

He walked away and Emma couldn’t find it in her to do anything but watch, as he disappeared around the next street corner.

But long after he was gone, Emma could still see him, in her head, getting thrown over by a racing vehicle, being suddenly struck by lightning, shooting out of the sky like a cruel mockery rather than divine punishment.

The world didn’t feel black or white anymore, to Emma, that afternoon. It didn’t even feel blue, as it had, after she had met Killian, and his terrible, intoxicating initiation had seemed to send her to the bottom of the ocean.

The world to Emma’s eyes, that day, was red. Like the blood beating at her temples, her heart hammering in her chest. She didn’t see by what miracle it could ever change colors again.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’d like to thank all the guests who’ve left wonderful reviews and whom I haven’t had the occasion to reply to. Your amazing feedback has done much to push this story forward. Please leave a comment to let me know what you thought about this chapter and share your ideas as to what will happen next. Your theories are always interesting and inspiration material.


	12. Crossroads

“Anyone ever called you a strange bird, Swan?”

Emma craned her neck to look at Graham, her blond ponytail swirling behind her. She’d just been ready to put the cask back over her ears, her grip tight and ready around the handgun she’d freshly emptied and reloaded. Colt 45. The small object had felt surprisingly heavy in her hand, blacker than anything Emma could remember seeing. The safety glasses she’d been given at the entrance were a strangely pink tinge. All the while that Emma had been shooting, trying to aim for the standard man-shaped target at the other end of the field, there had been that French song playing in loops in her head, _La vie en rose_.

“What?” She shot a startled glance at Graham. The sheriff stared back, looking very much serious. Yet again, Graham never knew how to smile so as to hint he was making a joke – one of the things for which kids at school targeted him for cruel derision. In truth, _right now_ , it was probably more appropriate for Emma to think of him as her friend, rather than the sheriff – he wasn’t on duty after all – but she couldn’t bring herself to.

“A strange bird,” he repeated, his brown eyes oddly solemn.

Though she didn’t recall anyone actually calling her that, Emma’s bare arms inexplicably covered with gooseflesh. It had been a hot day, and learning to take the recoil with every bullet she fired had seemed to make it that much hotter. _A strange bird_. It made her think of Killian Jones, for some reason. It sounded like something he might have said.

“Why would you ask me that?” She wondered, startled not only at the question but that he was asking for personal information at all – true, she had asked him to come here, as a favor, because she didn’t see who else might take her shooting range and, though she could have gone alone, Graham felt like an appropriate teacher.

He shrugged his shoulders. Wearing a plain black tee-shirt instead of his police uniform, Graham looked disturbingly like he had in high school.

“I don’t know. I guess I’ve never met anyone who developed a hobby for shooting targets just a few days before their wedding. It’s scheduled on Saturday, right?”

Emma nodded, taming her discomfort. Graham hadn’t been invited. She’d meant to, although she and Neal always wanted a small wedding and it wasn’t as if either of them was close to Graham in high school. But in the end, Neal had concluded with a shrug that maybe they could do without “every weird kid that had a crush on you in tenth grade”.

“Well, I mean,” Emma tried to think of a safe answer. “I’ve been thinking of getting a gun for a long while.”

“You have?”

“Yeah. I suppose we’ve all been proven that even Storybrooke isn’t such a safe place.” She added, as it was hopeless to persuade him that it had nothing to do with Killian.

“It’s safer for some than others,” Graham remarked. Emma wondered exactly what he meant by that. “Anyway. Let’s go again. It’s best you know how to handle these before you get one of your own. Accidents happen, you know. More often than you’d think.”

 

…

 

It had been a strange moment, and Emma couldn’t be sure whether it was because Graham was there or because she was shooting things. By the end, she was at a loss to determine how to feel about that afternoon, or how Graham had felt about it. She hadn’t seen so much of the sheriff since he had teamed up with her in biology, in their first year of high school.

Emma had finished class early that day, and even after an hour and a half learning the basics about handling a gun, it was still only four thirty p.m. Neal wouldn’t be home before six. Just then, she wondered what she’d say if he asked her what she’d been up to today. No more lies, she’d sworn, but maybe he’d be alarmed – Emma hadn’t said anything about wanting to get a gun precisely for that reason. It was best to wait after the wedding, give him time to get used to the idea.

But part of her couldn’t help but think, from the darkest depths of her: _A gun won’t make a difference after the wedding. It’ll be too late, by then. Much too late_.

Emma’s telephone rang just as she was getting inside her car. _Please, don’t let it be Neal_ , she thought, as if just talking to her on the phone, he might see where her car was parked, in front of the store that praised itself on providing its customers _The Finest Guns in the Land!_ If he asked her, later that evening, if she’d done anything special, she’d tell him – would not lie to him again – but omitting the truth wasn’t really the same as lying. She hoped.

Instead, the name Mary Margaret lit up on the caller ID. Though she never called her anything but _mom_ when she was with her, her name sometimes popped out when she wasn’t thinking, and on her cell phone, she’d never been anything else than _Mary Margaret_.

The two women traditionally called each other every Monday evening. Emma couldn’t remember how or exactly when this had started. She only knew that those easy conversations with her adoptive mother were the quietest moment – if not the high – of her week.

“Hey,” Emma picked up casually, a little relieved. “I didn’t expect you until a few hours. Is it okay if I call you back? I’m just about to drive home.”

Something about the silence that followed stiffened the down on Emma’s arms. It was odd, brutal, unexplainable.

“However much I hate to be rude, sweetheart,” came the reply, the haunting voice, “especially to you, I rather think we should talk right now.”

The breath in Emma’s throat felt like something solid, like ice. “Killian.”

“Before you get the chance to call me an evil bastard – and I’m sure you’d love to – your mother is safe and sound. Honest to God,” he chuckled at the mention, his laughter honey and hell. “I didn’t touch a hair on her lovely head. I do hope you’ll take this as a compliment, Emma – you’ve suspended my interest in killing women.”

She wanted to talk, even say simple words, but it was like having her mouth full of rocks.

“I was actually very surprised,” he resumed, “seeing your mother. Don’t you marvel at how utterly unlike you she is? There’s no darkness in her, honey, no darkness at all. You can tell when you meet someone whose heart is not the least bit tainted. How rare.” That laughter again, wicked, liquid night, ringing with the charms of boundless passion and insanity. “And how boring.”

Emma’s voice seemed to unjam. “If you’ve hurt her –”

“What, you’ll kill me? Interesting. Spare yourself the trouble of devising some creative threat. You can’t beat me at this game, Emma,” he chided, as if she were an overly-ambitious pupil. “Not yet. No, darling, your mother’s quite unharmed. I stole that cell phone right out of her purse, there was no violence – I don’t think she even felt me. That’s rather merciful of me, don’t you think? Most of them do. Feel me.”

In her mind, she could see him smiling, as he did when he sat opposite her, through the glass, in Storybrooke Penitentiary.

“Don’t I deserve a thank you for that, Emma? I should think I do.”

The wait between them could have lasted ten seconds, an hour. Inside Emma’s car, the heat was stifling, her breathing ragged with giddiness.

“Thank you,” the words came out at last.

Her surrender wasn’t followed by cruel laughter or other signs of amusement. Maybe he was disappointed in her for yielding – or ashamed of himself for making her.

“Don’t worry,” he said, as if he hadn’t heard her. “I’m done teasing you, I promise. In fact, I didn’t call to torment you at all – how unforgiveable of me, just a few days before your wedding.”

Anxiety prickled down Emma’s stomach. “Then why did you call?” She meant to sound strong. Killian appreciated strength, dignity even in the face of defeat. Of course, that didn’t mean he wouldn’t eventually show up at her house and kill her. Psychopaths aren’t known for being predictable. Come to think of it – she couldn’t gather one reason why he hadn’t done it.

“Well,” he answered, “I’ll tell you, Goldilocks, but I must admit I’m a little nervous. You must promise you’ll be indulgent. This is new for me. And you’re going to think it’s unreasonable – maybe even crazy.”

“I’d expect no less from you.”

“That’s the spirit!” Chuckling again. He sounded wild and mad and human. “Emma Swan, you’re music to my ears.”

“You might get on with it.”

“Yes, I wouldn’t waste your time.” He sighed. “Here we go then. Run away with me.”

Emma’s hold tightened around the phone. None of the things around her – rolling cars, a few passersby, flies buzzing in the summer air – not any of it seemed to be real. The world crumbled under Emma’s feet in an awe-inspiring silence. Reality wouldn’t have been further from her reach if hell had suddenly opened its mouth and eaten her.

“Oh, honey,” he said, “you really mean to make it hard for me?”

“Excuse me?”

“I will not. And I won’t repeat myself more than once. Isn’t it customary for a man to give the woman he’s courting a gift of sorts? Well, there it is. I haven’t harmed your mother. I won’t harm your fiancé or anyone else you love. My gift to you, Emma. As to my offer, you’ve already heard it.”

“You’re insane.”

“Yes,” he didn’t try to argue. “Don’t marry him, Emma. He isn’t for you. Most importantly, you aren’t for him. So, come with me. Wait!” He added, the word stabbing silence. “Before you say no, you must hear me out. You must hear _why_ you should go away with me.”

“Why _on earth_ would I?”

“Because you’ll smother, dear, if you don’t. Trust me, my black-hearted beauty. That boy will kill you as sure as I ever killed anything. You may think it’s what you want, a peaceful marriage, an ordinary life in Storybrooke, and it might have even worked out for you, if you hadn’t wanted to see the limits of that normal world, if you hadn’t decided to know for sure.”

“I don’t understand you.”

“Don’t take me for a fool,” the coldness in his voice cut through her defenses. “Of course you do. And let me tell you something else, Goldilocks. You only live once.”

“If you think for a second –”

“No, you haven’t let me finish. If you marry him, you’ll _smother_. Isn’t it better to throw yourself in those dark waters you’ve been craving to taste, to run the risk of drowning? If you had wanted ordinary, Emma, you would not have gone back to see me at that prison. You _know_ that. If you hadn’t awoken something in me, if I hadn’t awoken something in _you_ , you would have called the police weeks ago, you wouldn’t have let me play games with you, and you wouldn’t be trembling right now.”

“Stop talking.”

“ _Ah_.” His voice brightened up to a shade of musical madness. “So you do hear me. But that’s only the beginning, sweetheart, I’ve only told you what _he’s_ got to offer. _Me_ , Emma – I’ll give you greatness. I’ll go to extremes that’ll shake what you think of the world. I’ll make you see things, do things, your fiancé couldn’t dream up in his darkest days.”

“Stop.”

“Come with me and we’ll live together as you’ve never lived. I’ll give you goodness and rapture and heaven and sin.”

“You’re a _murderer_.”

His laughter echoed at the other end of the line. “Would you have taken even a scholar interest in me, darling, if you thought I was _only_ a murderer? I’ve killed people. I’ve looked for passion in this world wherever I thought I might find it. Now, there’s no use looking, because everywhere I go, there’s only your face, your voice. I know you feel it, too – let’s not call it love, Emma. Too many people have, and if they felt what you and I feel, they’d cry like uncomprehending children.”

He didn’t give her a chance to reply. Maybe he did, but shock was so heavy on Emma’s mind, she never thought to take it.

“It’s been hard, hasn’t it, trying to live in their world, now that you’ve seen mine? Chasing me from your thoughts, you’ve been trying, I’m sure, but it’s been hell, hasn’t it? Stop fighting, Emma. Let me in. Let me take you away, and we’ll do what you want. That’ll vary my days. You’ve called me mad, but don’t you hear the sense in what I’m saying? Don’t you _want_ to stop trying to find your place in a world that isn’t meant for you? Careful, darling. Careful. If you won’t listen to reason, I’ll use violence.”

His threat shook her from her state of bewitchment.

“No.”

She heard the word before she was aware she’d say it. He must have heard it, too. The silence at the other end of the line was wild, burning.

“That’s my answer to you,” she swallowed, her throat dry, her head screaming. “No.”

A few minutes went by. Emma sat motionless, her phone clung to her cheek. She was almost certain he’d hung up by the time he finally spoke – five simple words.

“Then God help us both.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve been wanting to write that conversation between Hook and Emma for SUCH a long time. I can’t wait to hear what you thought about it. Please leave a comment to let me know your thoughts! I’ll see you soon with another update.


	13. Confession

As it turned out, Emma wasn’t home until ten p.m. that night. Part of her was grateful for that, for having things to do, like driving home and calling her mother on the landline – Emma felt she would have been incapable of just sitting in the living room and waiting for Neal to get home. It was better not to stop, not to think. Not to doubt.

_If you marry him, you’ll smother._

His voice slithered in like a snake in her brain. That was probably as good an image as any for what Killian was.

Talking to Mary Margaret was both a relief and an ordeal. How far away she seemed now, this good, gentle woman who’d raised Emma. Killian was right, she thought before she could help it. She and Mary Margaret were so unlike. She wanted to hold her mother now, but if they touched, maybe Emma would burn like a vampire embracing sunlight.

“You never saw who took your phone then?” Emma asked. She didn’t sound quite right, still reeling from her phone call with Killian.

“No, not a glimpse,” Mary Margaret answered honestly. “But you know, your father says I’m never wary enough about those things. I don’t always zip my purse shut, I don’t take it with me when I go to the bathroom in a restaurant. Oh, it’s really nothing, Emma. Happens all the time.”

Emma swallowed. She could see the look on her mother’s face right now as well as if they were standing opposite each other: the lamb-like whiteness of her face, innocent and trusting. No, nothing at all was the matter. Emma knew Mary Margaret was certain of that.

In the end, it’s what gave her the strength to go through with it. “Did you go to the police?”

“Of course. They said they’d try to locate it, see if the user turns it on or tries to make a phone call.”

Emma inhaled deeply. So it was just a matter of time before they found out. “He made a phone call, mom.”

“I’m sorry?”

“He called _me_.” There was befuddled silence at the other end of the line. “It’s okay. I’m all right.”

“Emma –”

“I’ve got to go, mom. I need to talk to Sheriff Graham.”

 

…

 

Whoever said confession is good for the soul mustn’t have had the same kind as Emma’s. Sitting in front of Graham at the police station, looking into his calm brown eyes – how odd that he’d been helping her shoot targets just a few hours before – Emma didn’t feel like a weight was being lifted from her chest. She didn’t feel as if her world was any brighter, or as if the darkness was any safer.

Emma actually found this a little ridiculous – being seated here, like a prisoner. Probably somewhere Killian Jones had sat before. Suddenly, Emma could imagine him, watching her, through the glass-wall that reflected her and Graham.

“Do we have to make it this formal?” She said.

“Afraid so. It’s better like this. You say the man who stole your mother’s phone called you, this afternoon.”

“Not just the man who stole my mother’s phone.” Emma’s answer came out dry. She couldn’t see the point in repeating her statement.

“Right. Killian Jones,” Graham somehow didn’t sound surprised. Emma found it was strange, for them both to be here, for her to have to look at him as an authority figure – Graham who’d get lectured by teachers for not doing his homework on time, who always took their reprimands with remarkable impassiveness, as if he couldn’t hear them at all. “When was that, exactly?” He asked.

“Right after we practiced shooting. I was parked in front of the store.”

“What did he say to you?”

“Nothing about his whereabouts. Nothing about what he planned to do.”

“So, what did he say?”

“If it can’t help you catch him, does it matter?”

“I’ll be the judge of whether or not it’s any help.”

“Graham –”

“Let’s start with another question, Emma.” He interrupted. “Was this the first time Killian Jones contacted you?”

At this point, she didn’t care what the consequences might be. She’d told Neal the truth. There was no reason for her to hesitate, as she did, as if –

As if it were betrayal.

“No.”

Confession was bad, very bad for Emma’s soul. Though she only saw herself when she cast furtive glances towards the mirror, she could feel Killian’s presence, could feel the weight of his black gaze on her. Mirrors were unsafe, too much like doors into reversed worlds. _That’s what Alice climbs through to go back to Wonderland_ , Emma suddenly remembered.

If she pressed her fingers to the surface of the glass, would it feel hard and cold, or would it melt beneath her touch, drink her in, take her back?

_Stop fighting, Emma. Let me in._

Emma closed her eyes. It’d been months since she’d had a proper rest. Sleeplessness is more dangerous than it sounds, makes one world crumble into another, scatters your resistance –

“How many times?” Graham asked, calmly. “For how long?”

“Soon after he escaped prison. I know I could have told you,” could and not _should_. “Somehow, I thought I’d have better chances trying to catch him by myself. It’d be difficult for me to explain why. And I was afraid.”

“Did he threaten you?”

There was silence. Emma realized she was incapable of answering this question.

“Let’s just start with what you remember,” Graham suggested. Emma marveled at how soft he sounded, despite the rugged, practical tone of his voice.

“What I remember?”

“Everything he told you. As much as you can tell me.”

The words in Emma’s mouth were an inchoate wave of nonsense. It didn’t only feel as if it’d be _wrong_ to tell him, to share the things that had only existed for her and Killian, in a world of their making, where she was no longer a callow student, where he was not only an escaped convict. It was as if she truly _couldn’t_ , would not have words for it that Graham might understand.

And yet the patience and compassion in his eyes suggested he understood just fine. “We found your mother’s cell phone,” he said, “it was abandoned at the wood border, right outside Storybrooke. If it was Killian who called you, Emma, if he really is still around – you aren’t safe here. You know that?”

She made herself nod. It went against what her instinct told her. For whatever reason, she didn’t think Killian would harm her. This belief was fascinating, when she knew he was a woman killer. Any outsider to the terrifying world they’d created and become prisoners of, anyone would think that she was just another pawn to him, a soon-to-be victim. If Emma said the words out loud, to Graham, if her relationship with Killian entered the realm of reality, then she knew she would have to acknowledge they were right.

Killian Jones was a murderer first and foremost.

_Careful, darling. Careful. If you won’t listen to reason, I’ll use violence._

His word couldn’t be trusted. His actions couldn’t be defended. And Emma didn’t believe – or hadn’t been aware – that she’d been doing either of these things.

“Emma?” Graham repeated. He looked quiet, quieting. If he was concerned beneath that smooth surface, she couldn’t see it. “Do you think that Jones might try and come after you?”

Emma blinked and saw Killian’s playful grin, beautiful, ruthless, as if he were trying to charm his way out of hell. Then she saw a mirror and red-lipstick letters spelling WELCOME!

“Yes,” she heard herself answer. It was like watching an actress, wearing her face, using her voice.

That word alone was enough for Emma’s dark imaginary world to tumble into the real one. She was on the brink of marrying Neal and an escaped killer was trying to convince her to let herself be stolen, to trade love for passion, ordinary for magic, reason for insanity.

She had entered the games of a most skillful player, and which was worse, she didn’t see how she could stop.

Now he was holding all the cards, and sure enough, if it didn’t turn out to be a winning hand, there’d be a couple of aces up his sleeve.

“Yes, Graham,” Emma finished. “I really think he will.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’d like to thank all of you for the great feedback I’ve been getting. Please let me know your thoughts and ideas in a comment, they’re always welcome. I’ll try not to keep you waiting too long for the next chapter.


	14. Point of No Return

After the official confession was over, Graham took Emma out and offered to get her some coffee before she drove home. Though it was already late and Neal would be worried, Emma nodded – decided to delay her brutal return to normal life.

Sometimes, it just felt as if the easiest thing to do to run away from these confused thoughts in her heard, would be to drive away from Storybrooke, disappear alone into the shadows, never think of home again, of who she was. Maybe, if she took the time to start over, she’d see things clearer, see the world as she should.

“I’m sorry if this was a little harsh,” Graham said as he handed Emma a forty-cent latte cup. He sat next to her on the bench where she had been waiting; her eyes were half-absently skimming over the WANTED section.

“What, in there?” Emma glanced at the interrogation room.

She’d tried to act light about it, but his eyes were serious as ever. “Yes. Or if I was cold. In that room, I can’t react as a friend, you know.”

Up until then, Emma would have never thought that she and Graham were friends, and now she saw that there was no other word for it.

“I know,” she answered.

“I’m sorry if I made you sound like a guilty person. It was just very important I knew everything you know. I wouldn’t want you to think I can’t make the difference between an abettor and a victim.”

“You think I’m a victim?” Emma heard the surprise in her own voice, blushed at how clueless she sounded.

Graham took no notice of it. “Of course,” with a matter-of-fact bluntness. “You might think what’s happening to you is extraordinary, Emma, but actually it’s common. I see a lot of people like you. Not just women. People who’ve been conned, cheated, manipulated. It’s always the same confusion in their eyes when you ask them why they didn’t come to us sooner. You just see to them it was impossible – unthinkable.”

Suddenly, he looked back at her and seemed to see something that made him ashamed. “I’m sorry. Maybe you don’t want to hear this.”

“No, I do.” She lied impulsively. Sometimes it’s not about what you want but about what you need. “Do you think that’s what happened? That Killian –” Calling him by his name felt too intimate, sweet guiltiness on her tongue. “That he got into my head?”

“It’s fairly obvious, isn’t it? No,” he shook his head, “not to you, it isn’t. I’m sure even early on, those visits you paid him felt like a transgression. He’d make you feel like that. If you’re walking on forbidden grounds, even if you have no idea how you wound up there, you’re going to feel guilty about where you’re standing – too guilty to tell anyone. I know you, Emma,” he added. “You’re a good person. If Jones hadn’t played with your head, you’d have never kept anything from the cops that could lead to his arrest.”

Emma was silent for a second, her chest bloated with short-lasting hope that it could be that simple, that she could believe him.

But Killian’s voice was fast in her brain – fitting to say he had gotten there indeed.

_If that were true, if you were really just another woman I was preying on, you wouldn’t be alive right now_. _If you were only one of my victims, the temptation wouldn’t be so strong as it is, fear wouldn’t be mingled with want._

It was thinking the words that Emma acknowledged the truth in them. Whenever her phone rang, when her blood ran cold at the sight of an unidentified caller, and when it only turned out to be someone trying to sell her something she didn’t need – didn’t her chest cave with disappointment as well as relief?

Hearing Killian’s voice on the phone and him shaking her view of the world, rattling all preconceptions, pulling her from a sound and unexciting life – didn’t he in a way _save_ her even as he threatened her?

Terror gripped Emma’s heart in an iron grip. _Please, no_ , she thought, more alarmed at the lack of logic she saw in Graham’s words than she had ever been at any of Killian’s confessions. _Please, if I’ve ever done anything good in my life, don’t let me think the rest of the world is wrong and what Killian says is right. Don’t let me want him, even if I never give in, even if I marry Neal, even if I never become a traitor outside the realm of thoughts – don’t let me want to_.

There was one thing Killian had said Emma knew to be right. He was more than just a murderer. _All_ murderers were. She would be little of a psychology student if she failed to acknowledge that. Crime was a face with many masks. People were lured to it for all sorts of reasons. Want of fame, attention. Despair. Revenge. _Passion_. There was no need to guess what Killian saw in it, as he’d told her from the beginning. But Emma wasn’t drawn to it herself, was both sickened and fascinated by hat world Killian had opened up for her. And so, things being as they were… what choice was there for her but to admit there was something about him, something about the man and not the murderer, that mesmerized her, that probed her whole being and reached uncharted depths?

“You hear me, Emma?”

“Yes,” she answered Graham, riveting her eyes on her smoldering plastic cup. Fleeing his eyes as if he’d see the terrible truth in hers.

“Hey,” he said, softly. “You don’t have to be ashamed. Not you. You’ve done nothing wrong, probably nothing anyone wouldn’t have done in your position. Sociopaths are known to be exceptional manipulators.”

“I wouldn’t say Killian Jones is a sociopath.” Emma couldn’t help pointing out; she didn’t think any such clear-cut label was right for Killian.

_Why_ couldn’t she stop thinking she understood him better than anyone, that he understood parts of her no one, herself included, had ever thought to look for?

His voice crept into her head, a distant chill from the past.

_I’m not getting out of your skin until you’ve gotten out of mine_.

Why was she incapable to believe either of them would find a way out?

“Whatever he is,” Graham answered after a moment. “It doesn’t change who _you_ are.”

“You’re right.”

But Emma could no longer pretend she was _just_ an innocent college student, any more than Killian was just a killer. Since she had stepped foot into that prison and looked in his dark, dark eyes, Emma had had to wear a mask in front of everyone who knew her. Not so they wouldn’t see the darkness in her, but so _she_ could forget it was there – to forget it had awoken, before the enthralling the face of its master.

And this had happened because despite their differences, despite the fact that Killian was a monster to Emma’s goodhearted mind, there was something about their spirits that was very much alike. Deep past who they’d both chosen to become, their souls were of the same fiery material, wild, ungovernable; undeniable.

“It doesn’t change who I am,” Emma repeated numbly.

The rich tone of Killian’s voice in her mind. _What you are_ , he’d say to her, had already told her in a number of ways, _is mine_. _Forever_. Smiling, like an evil genie. _You wanted to take a trip down the wicked ways of the world and I granted your wish, and now your soul is in my power_.

“Well,” Graham sighed, wearily got on his feet. “It’d be a pleasure to keep you company, Emma, but I’m afraid work awaits.”

“Of course.” She drained her coffee cup in one go. The burning liquid momentarily anchored her back on steady grounds. “Graham?” She called when he turned to leave.

“What?”

She hadn’t known what she wanted to ask until the words left her mouth. “Will you come to my wedding?” The silence between them was strange, not embarrassing. “I know I’m doing this at the last minute –”

“No,” he shook his head. “No, I’d love to go, Emma. Just tell me one thing. Do you want me to go as your friend… or as the sheriff?”

Emma didn’t answer; she didn’t need to. From the grave look that settled on Graham’s face, she could tell it was understood.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: I know I took a longer while in updating than usual, but I can feel we’re reaching the end and I’ve been having such a good time with this story I wanted to make it last. Can’t wait to know your thoughts! Any reaction is welcome.


	15. Into the Woods

When the day finally came, Emma felt she had been waiting for so long, she was half convinced it would never come. That things would just remain as they were, perpetual waiting, she and Neal engaged and a happy ending on the horizon.

Now, Emma wasn’t sure she still believed in happy endings and her horizon had filled with blue.

The wedding.

Even as her alarm woke her at a quarter to eight, even as she was squeezed into that great white dress, her mother marveling that she looked like a fairytale princess, Emma still couldn’t really convince herself she was going to be married today.

_Man and wife_. Funny how she went from woman to wife but the man was spared this transformation, as if to say he was still a man before he was a husband. Which made sense. But the _wife_? Good gracious, no. Strip yourself clean of all the marks of your identity, young girl. Smoothen the irregularities, blunt those still-sharp edges, become no longer an infinity of contradictions but just the one, trimmed, pretty thing you were meant to become.

Wife.

Looking at the tall, blond woman in the mirror, whose eyes were fogged with incomprehension. “I wanted this,” Emma said to herself, tried to will herself into a resolute state. “I wanted to marry Neal. I love Neal.”

But somehow this all felt irrelevant to the absurdity of what she was looking at. The vice of satin around her chest. White fabric pouring from her skirts like a wave of snowflakes. _The white stands for virginal purity_.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” She asked the woman in the mirror. “Why are you ruining everything?”

The wedding was fixed at two o’clock. Just one hour now and Emma Swan would cease to exist, would fade into Mrs. Cassidy. There was no reason why the thought of marriage should suddenly stifle her – and part of her thought, _realized_ , it hadn’t actually been sudden.

Emma loved Neal, had loved him for years. Marriage was always the plan so when he’d asked, she’d thought ‘Why not?’ and she’d said yes. It wasn’t as though Neal would ask her to change. And up until recently, anyway, Emma had never thought she would _want_ to change.

But maybe she wasn’t afraid he’d change her so much as he’d want to keep her the way she was. Always in the same shape and state as she’d been when he met her – long hair and romantic smiles, girlish innocence.

_Why don’t you realize_ , said a sweet-speaking voice, _that any label is already a cage for someone like you? You might not believe you were born dark, but you were born free, and too young to see the dangers of domestic confinement_. _A home is just a pile of bricks. You’ll be able to look out the window, but not to cross the threshold, not to fly away whenever you feel like it. Fitting you won’t be called_ Emma Swan _anymore. The bird in you is about to have its wings clipped._

Emma had been alone in her room for a few hours, eventually convincing her parents she needed some rest before the ceremony. Try as she might, she couldn’t compel herself to eat even one bite of food all day. In her gut, she knew something wasn’t right, when she realized she was hoping something would happen and the whole thing would be put off – she’d pass out, Neal’s father would collapse amongst the crowd with a heart attack, a hurricane would burst from the sunny sky and sweep away all of the tables, the flowers, the cake, the whole wedding just swallowed into the whirling winds.

She had to talk to Neal.

Things were wrong, very wrong, in a way Emma hadn’t anticipated. All this time, she thought this terrible fear in her stomach, this bad feeling she had, was about Killian – that she was afraid he’d be able to stop the wedding somehow, or that something bad would happen to Neal before they had a chance to marry.

Now was a little late to realize that wasn’t it.

_This is what scares me_ , Emma thought, had little choice but to admit. _Becoming Neal’s wife. Joining our lives until death do us part_.

A knock on the door made Emma start. The clock on the wall now read 1.15. “Come in?”

Graham entered with his ever-casual look. Emma hadn’t had the occasion to run into him today. She noticed he wasn’t wearing his sheriff’s uniform, though there was the slight bump of a firearm beneath his jacket.

“Hi, Emma. I wanted to see you before the ceremony – are you all right?”

So he could see it, too, the anomaly of her in this white dress, the smothering material of the life she was pledging herself to.

“What did you want to talk about?”

“Just security measures. Emma –”

“Do you mind if we talk outside?”

Looking at her evenly, his brown, quiet gaze betraying not the merest thought. “Sure.”

 

…

 

She hadn’t thought she’d need to get this far from the place, but as soon as she and Graham stepped out of the house – even using the backdoor – they could hear the festivities shimmering from the garden. The people who’d arrived were drinking champagne, maybe they’d started serving the appetizers. Neal and her had agreed on a small garden wedding, nothing fancy – nothing worth being nervous about.

As she and Graham treaded stealthily into the woods, the smell of earth filling her lungs, Emma thought a walk would do her good.

“You sure about this?” Graham asked.

“Why? Nothing wrong in a bride taking some air, is there?”

“You’ll get dirt on your dress.”

“Yeah, well.”

Graham smiled. “If people see us together, they’ll probably think we’re eloping.”

Emma tried to determine whether he was trying to joke. It had been a long time since she’d seen him smile like that – maybe high school. For a second, Emma saw the boy in him rather than the man Regina Mills had made of him.

She smiled, too. “Don’t give me any ideas. You wanted to talk to me about security?”

“Just formalities, making sure you knew there was nothing to worry about. A couple of my men are patrolling around the neighborhood. No reason this shouldn’t be a boring and lovely wedding.”

“Right.”

“But that was the sheriff in me, coming to see you. Now, as a friend, I thought you could use some space – a little moment away from the rush of it all.”

Emma’s chest was gripped too tight, air struggling to crawl through. If Graham hadn’t walked in when he had, this might have evolved into a full-blown panic attack.

“This isn’t what it looks like.” She felt the need to say before she wondered, “What _does_ this look like?”

“Like your regular bride getting cold feet.”

“No, no –” Though if _getting cold feet_ meant having second thoughts and being taken over by a sudden urge to call off the wedding, Emma decided it was a little bit like that. “I don’t know what to do, Graham.”

The sound of his laughter was such a surprise that she interrupted her walk. They’d gotten past the border of the woods, and Emma was aware of how ridiculous it would look to Neal or anyone else, her taking a walk with Sheriff Graham not an hour away from her wedding.

He stopped walking, too. “Please,” he said, his amusement tamed to a light chuckle, “can you tell me why it’s always _right before_ the ceremony that it happens? I never got why that’s how it went. What is it about weddings, does a vortex suddenly open its mouth and put ideas into your head that had never occurred to you a minute before?”

“If you’re going to laugh at me, Graham, I should warn you, I’ll punch you in the face, sheriff or not.”

“Spare yourself the trouble. I’m not making fun of you, Emma.”

Cautiously appraising him for a moment, she decided the look in his eyes was good-natured. “They aren’t _new_ thoughts,” she said. That there was no reason why she should confide in him did nothing to stop her. “Those doubts I have. It’s only I didn’t recognize them before. I mean, I didn’t think they came from _me_ at all.”

With Killian offering to take her away so they could both steal into a night of crime and passion, it had been all too easy to think it was _his_ voice she heard, that he was just getting into her head.

_If you marry him, you’ll smother._

And she was smothering. Had been smothering for months.

Wasn’t it fitting that, since she’d met Killian, Emma had felt like she was standing near a great precipice, tottering between two worlds, and all the while telling herself all would be okay so long as she just married Neal and put those thoughts to rest? Thinking she wasn’t living the life that was right for her, that this wasn’t where she belonged… how hadn’t she made the connection?

“I was an idiot,” she said. “I ignored everything around me that made me feel like this wasn’t right. Now it’s too late.”

“Well, hardly. Are you married yet, Emma Swan?”

“Don’t be silly.”

“What? Are you actually going to get married when you don’t want it, only because everyone’s already been bothered to come? This is your _life_ , Emma. Politeness, formalities – what does it matter? You can start again. You can do anything you want.”

“What, like you?” She shot back. “Is that what you want, being Madam Mayor’s boytoy?”

Shadows fell over his face. “We’re not talking about me. _I_ ’m not the one just about to get married.”

“I love Neal.”

“So what are you doing here, hiding in the woods… with me?”

Emma stared at him for a moment. Her mind was a battlefield, scattered with conflicting, unidentified emotions. Somehow, without thinking, she knew the words she spoke to be entirely true. “He doesn’t know me. It’s not his fault. Until these past few months, I didn’t know myself. I’m afraid who he fell in love with doesn’t exist anymore and I hate myself for it. It’s like I killed her, the innocent girl Neal wanted to marry. That’s what I feel like, Graham. Like I murdered myself, like I murdered our dreams, our life together. And what scares me most is that I’ll feel so guilty I’ll spend the rest of my days pretending she’s still in there, somewhere – that I’ll act the ghost of my former self sooner than to break his heart and tell him.”

Silence was grave in the air, the forest around them slightly surreal. “You can’t live an illusion,” he said. “Not you. Isn’t that what you’ve been doing, all this time – trying to find the _truth_? About who you are, what you want. Trying to tell the difference between what’s real and what’s not. Isn’t that what this was all about?”

“Graham –”

“It isn’t too late for you. Hell, it’s just about time. Forget about the scandal. Forget about hurting your fiancé’s feelings. What matters is –”

The bullet came from behind, stole the rest of his sentence. Emma never heard a gunshot. Graham was still looking at her, his eyes wide with shock or maybe with the feelings he’d been about to confess. Suddenly, Emma saw a red dot on his chest, spreading like spilt wine over his shirt.

She didn’t think of screaming when he collapsed.

And when the figure of her Prince of Darkness emerged in front of her, his gun still smoldering, the smile on his lips a mockery to pity and kindness, Emma couldn’t scream, or think, or actually breathe.

“Well, look at that,” Killian said, amusedly looking at their surroundings, the gun in his hand and her wedding dress. “It’s the big bad wolf who ate the huntsman – the criminal who shot the sheriff.”

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: I can’t wait to read your reactions so don’t be shy! I’ll try not to be too long with another update.


	16. Bride of Darkness

 

The grip of his hand around her was iron but the feel was warm, as he dragged her into the woods, intoxicated haste.

“Come, hurry,” he said, not ungently. “We don’t have much time until people start looking for you.”

At the moment, Emma was incapable of putting clear-cut words on what was happening, couldn’t bring herself to think that Killian was stealing her from her own wedding, that he had killed her friend, that she was being kidnapped.

Floating in a haze of surreal numbness, she followed him, stray branches tearing into her dress, the heels at her feet sinking into the mud.

“Here,” Killian paused, “leave those behind. We need to cover more ground.”

Emma took off her shoes. It felt in order that she should feel threatened, do as he ask. _Am I afraid, am I choosing to obey him, will people wonder that I didn’t fight,_ why _aren’t I?_

The gun he’d used to shoot the sheriff was now hooked at his belt. His hold on her hand was firm, maybe not firm enough to dissuade her from tearing away – she didn’t know. She hadn’t _tried_. All the women he’d killed, Emma could remember following the gory score on television before he was caught. Twelve in total. All young, all beautiful. Neal would grow so angry at this, flexing his fists, looking disgustedly at the screen. _It’s a shame Maine doesn’t have capital punishment anymore_.

Now, was she to become number thirteen?

“Come on,” he urged, still sounding soft. “We’re nearly there.”

Somehow, she broke free from his hand before he could stop her. He mustn’t have expected she’d fight. The thought was humiliating, guilt stabbing into her chest. “You killed my friend.” She managed to take a few steps backwards, without hopes of escaping. Taking her eyes off Killian was impossible, the sight of his imperious gaze dizzying. Even now, she could feel the weight of its spell, her mind struggling against its unyielding grasp.

“Please, Emma, dear.” His softness now was full of warnings. “Let’s not make this difficult.”

“You said you wouldn’t kill any more people.” Had she believed this, even for a second? Only a fool would think it possible to tame the Prince of the Underworld. Then why the cold bite of betrayal in her breast, why the shock of watching Graham fall to the ground?

 _It’s the wolf who shot the huntsman_.

As she stepped back, Killian took mirroring steps towards her, circles – or was she seeing straight? – it didn’t occur to her that she could stop his predatory progress. Emma’s back encountered hard rind. It was pointless to go any further, to will her eyes away from Killian’s commanding face.

“Now, I’m going to be very clear,” he said, “because it’s important you believe me. Your _trust_ matters to me, Emma. When we last spoke over the phone, I told you I wouldn’t kill any more people _if you came with me_. What’s happened today is completely different. Your friend the sheriff happened to be in the way – oh, and you’re lucky, darling, that it was only the two of you in those woods. To get to you, I would have killed every wedding guest and _the groom_ , if I’d had to.”

Maybe only because he’d gotten closer, or because of what he’d said, Emma’s hand flew of its own will, as if to slap him. Killian caught it. Dirt on his hand, dark, around the soiled white sleeve of her wedding dress. They’d never touched before today. Emma used to think his power was much to be reckoned with, even as he was chained to his chair, even as walls of glass stood between them. What was she to think _now_?

“No, none of that.” He chided. Not much more than a few inches of distance between them and Emma could taste his shadow towering above her. “I gave you a chance to have it your way, remember? I said we’d do what _you_ wanted, but you let that window fly right out of your reach, my pet, and now we’ll do what _I_ want.” The smile on his lips didn’t quite soften the look in his eyes. “For a start.”

“I’m not going anywhere with you. You might as well kill me now.”

“If I thought you meant that, I think I might.”

Emma tried to free her wrist from his grip but he held her tight, their clenched hands an ominous flag hanging in the sky, it could mean parley – or war.

He chuckled. “But then, if I did kill you, love, I rather believe I’d go mad. And that’s not the plan, is it? No. I took you from your own wedding because you were _my_ bride. You might not know that, but I think you do,” his smile grew gentler, wicked, “in your darkest days. Remember, you first came to me because you wanted to learn and, oh, Goldilocks, I have much to show you.”

“No.” Emma felt she had to be cautious, but she also had to be smart, and she couldn’t let him win completely. He appraised her with amusement. Still, she imagined he could grow bored of it in a minute and become dangerous – Killian Jones was _always_ dangerous. “I won’t do this, I won’t follow you, if you’re going to kill people.”

“Ah-ha.” Grinning, impressed. “You negotiate. Well, all right. It’s just as well I should have your agreement – your participation.”

Emma swallowed. Fear was racing in her heart but not fear only. What else, she couldn’t determine.

“Then,” he resumed, “let us say that so long as you _follow me_ , so long as you don’t try to escape or alert people, then I won’t kill.” His smile stretched half an inch. “If I don’t have to. What do you say, Emma?”

His hand was still locked firmly around hers, as if sealing her promise in flesh. “Yes.”

Then he started laughing, and the sound that came out of his throat was wild and enchanting, the mad, raptured music of darkness. “Don’t say it like that. Today’s your wedding day. Second chance, darling – _what do you say?_ ”

“I do.”

His grip was tight to the point of pain. Suddenly, he let go and both his hands were on her cheeks, clutching her in his arms.

Reason was evaporating from Emma’s thoughts. What a sight they must be, the bride and the murderer, a black-and-white story belonging to lost ages, there in the wilderness. Emma had never looked so closely at Killian’s face before – the features were beautiful, bewitching, and she could see how they could play this game, how _she_ could abandon her own will to ease into the secure prison of his universe. And he was used to this, of course. The vampire drinking the soul straight from the lips of entranced girls.

 _No_.

The voice in herself was strong, the violence of a force of nature rocking inside her body.

_No matter where he takes me, where this goes, I won’t let him do this, drink me, erase me. He can kill me like he killed the others, but he won’t take me alive._

She made this promise, not for Neal, or for the memory of Graham’s collapsing body in the woods. She did it for _herself_. For the girl she had been before she stepped into Storybrooke Penitentiary and for the woman she’d become since.

“Oh, Emma.” He sighed. “The world that awaits us. Can you imagine a realm of unending night, the infinity of stars and blackness that we’ll travel?” He grinned. “ _I do_. And let me tell you, my wife, we’re going to have such a wonderful flight, you and I.”

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: we’re getting to the part of the story I had in mind when I first began to write this story, what’s been driving me from the beginning. Please let me know your reactions.


	17. Freedom

They walked until they reached the border of the forest, where a black, ominous vehicle was waiting for them. Tinted glass on the windows, and suddenly Killian was producing the car keys from his jean pocket, and it all struck Emma as oddly anachronical.

What had she been expecting? Not a car but a carriage drawn by wild horses? A flying ship that would disappear underground, down the rocky waves of uncharted waters?

He let go of her arm to fetch something in the car. Emma’s throat was jammed, as if by a very sharp, un-softening piece of ice. If she let him take her into that car, she thought, all hopes of being discovered were lost or seriously diminished. The woods were the first place that would be searched when she was officially missing – with a car, they could be anywhere, they could be out of Storybrooke within an hour.

Because _she_ was why Killian had lingered in Storybrooke in the first place. Emma knew this, instinctively, maybe had known from the beginning.

Now that he had her – how awful was the very thought, making her cringe with unease – they could disappear in this vast world of darkness and seduction, of extremes and unreason. Killian Jones’s world.

Terror kept Emma frozen while her captor was busy pulling a large bag out of the car. What would be safest, _smartest_ , to dash for the forest while he wasn’t looking, maybe punch him in the back of the head to try and knock him out? But she was afraid to touch him.

“Here, darling,” he handed her items of clothing he’d selected from the bag. “I brought you some spare, and you should probably change – don’t get mistaken, I _love_ that dress on you, but I’m afraid it’ll make you just a tad recognizable.”

Emma hesitated. What would smart girls do? Would a smart girl have gotten herself in her situation in the first place?

Swallowing, trying to dress fear into modesty. “You want me to change – in front of you?”

“Circumstances demand. You’re not shy, are you?”

“But can’t we… if we’re going to a motel, I could change in the bathroom.”

A gleam passed over his features. Was she trying to get him to reveal his plan, just how much did he suspect her? How much would he _indulge_ her in the course of this escapade – he would probably call it a honeymoon, which she supposed was appropriate. A honeymoon of hell.

“No,” he answered, softly, cautiously. “No motel.”

Emma didn’t unhook her eyes from his. When you try to fool the King of Darkness, you must have the nerves to do it while looking at him. “Then where?” She wondered, stalling. “Where are we going, Killian?”

It seemed to her a shiver shook his whole frame when she spoke his name. Maybe she dreamed it. But then again, maybe she dreamed _all of it_.

“You’ll know, soon enough.”

“I want to know now.”

He chuckled, laughter thundering into the sky. The sun was setting on Storybrooke. It was the only indicator as to how much time they had been in those woods.

“You try my _patience_ , my little bird.”

Emma clenched her jaw, steeling herself against intimidation. She had to fight against the urge to be docile and tame, not to give him a reason to hurt her – he’d needed no reason to hurt the others.

“You might as well tell me,” she continued, her tone firm if not defying. “Not as if you’d allow me to be taken by the police, anyway. If I’m going to be with you until the end,” he’d like that phrasing, “then what’s the harm in my knowing your plan?”

“Are you stalling me, Emma Swan?”

“It wouldn’t take so long if you answered my questions.”

“I’ve asked you to _change_.”

“And I won’t.” She tossed the clothes he’d given her on the ground, surprising them both. Now, she knew she had to be careful, and she didn’t attempt to flee his gaze for a second. “I will not take off my clothes while you watch. I will not parade in front of you like a piece of meat. Is that really what you want, Killian? Did you make the others do it? Or did you think because we were in the woods and it was dark, we could behave like savages?”

His eyes stayed silent, impenetrable, for a moment, until a smile slowly descended on his mouth. “All right, Emma. My game, your rules. Keep that dress, my love, that looks so well on you it’s making me half insane.”

Emma wasn’t at all convinced he was even half sane at this point, but knew better than to say it.

Suddenly, he was grabbing her by the hand, and she couldn’t repress a small gasp. “Now, see how I’m making efforts to _compromise_? That’s married life for you.” He laughed, opening the car door and forcing her inside. “But no more stalling, all right?”

He didn’t say, _No more games_ , or, _Don’t try to play smart_. He would not have taken her, if he did not want to play.

“Don’t worry,” he said, as he took the driving seat next to her. “I realize you’re afraid. But it isn’t prison that awaits you. In time, you’ll understand that. Your freedom matters to me, Emma. When I met you, you were a redbreast in a cage, singing your pretty song, not seeing the bars because you’d forged yourself around them, thought they were the way of the world. What I’m doing now is _breaking_ the cage. And I’m sure it hurts, I’m sure it feels like your whole world is collapsing. But it’s for the best.”

“Whose?” The word slipped past her lips.

He caught it with a smile – a smile that looked wicked as ever but also honest. “Mine,” he spoke gently. “And yours. Because, my dear _Emma_ –” He made her shiver just like she had. An eye for an eye. “The first moment I set eyes on you, I _knew_ that if you were free, if there were no more bars between us invented by the laws of men and of Right and Wrong, you’d be with me.”

Emma’s blood turned cold when it struck her she was unable to deny it.

“It’s people like Adam Gold,” he said, “who make up these notions, who decide where people will go, what they will do.” He shook his head. “Ah, the old man does get credit for leading me to you. Don’t look so bemused, darling. You must have done something to anger him, for which I love you all the better.”

“What do you mean?”

He arched a brow. “Didn’t you wonder how I knew where and when you were getting married?”

She actually had. She and Neal had tried to keep it private, in the _better safe than sorry_ spirit, but it hadn’t truly been absurd to think Killian would find out, inexplicably, as if they were connected somehow and he could pick thoughts from her very mind.

“ _Adam Gold_ told you?” Whether it was surprise or outrage that made her voice tremble, she couldn’t determine.

“Of course he didn’t _tell_ me. But he had ways of letting me know. Well, not me personally – but someone allowed the word to spread around town, it was easy for me to catch wind of it.”

“But how would he –”

“I can tell you, Emma, that Adam Gold has ways of knowing things you probably can’t imagine.” His face turned graver when he spoke of him, as if suddenly tasting something sour in the air. “It’s because of men like him that freedom is endangered in the first place. Believe me, Emma, it’s people like Gold who will try to put people into cages.” There was passion in how he spoke his case. Always, Emma had marveled at his ability to turn darkness into art – into an object of love – a way of life. “I myself am a freethinker,” he said, “and I won’t keep you locked in a silver net. You’ll be free to call me a perjurer and execute me yourself, Emma Swan, if you don’t find yourself _completely free_ by the end of this.”

“The end of what?”

He smiled. “Let’s not spoil the surprise.”

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please let me know your reactions. Also, I’m taking all sorts of suggestions for new stories (including one shots) if you’ve got any ideas. I’m a compulsive writer and I don’t have anything better to do, so don’t be shy ;-).


	18. Alone

Though some aspects of Killian’s life were now common knowledge – the disadvantage of becoming a notorious serial killer – there was a lot that the press hadn’t bothered to disclose. Not sensational, gory or sociopathic enough. Who said that killers couldn’t have ordinary parents and an uneventful childhood?

Killian hadn’t felt much affection for his family but one of the few things he’d enjoyed in that first phase of his life was his father teaching him to sail.

Nothing so real, so invigorating, as the raw feel of a wet rope in your hand, the smell of salt and seaweeds filling the air with intoxicating, _alien_ fragrance. When Killian had first found himself in the middle of the ocean, with nothing but that infinity of blueness looking back at him, he had known there was so little men dared to explore on earth, and that his own kingdom would be everything that was yet unmastered.

The taboo. The shocking. The infamous.

After he started murdering women, he always thought if there came a time when he was tired of the world, he’d sail away, abetted by the black coat of night, alone and invisible, disappear into the big blue that left so many people awed and foolishly gazing.

There was no beauty so perfect, Killian thought, no such pure splendor, that he wouldn’t want to touch it, that he would prefer to remain a stupid spectator like the rest of the crowd.

And so, long before he was captured and sentenced by the State of Maine, Killian Jones had bought and stashed away the perfect escape plan. A gorgeous decent-sized boat, white as a dove, that was being watched by a clueless dimwitted keeper at Boothbay Harbor.

Where else could he have wanted to take Emma? What better reflection for her unfettered soul than a world of concealed wonders and hidden depths?

“It won’t be much longer now,” he said, drawing his eyes away from the road.

Emma was silent as an ice queen, almost as haughty as the day she’d first walked into Storybrooke penitentiary on her high heels. Probably, she resented that he’d had to tie her up – he couldn’t well risk for her to try and hijack the car while he was driving.

“Three hours, maybe four.” He added. “Just enough to get us through the night.”

So far, she hadn’t slept, which was maybe a way of demonstrating her protest, a silent strike of sorts.

In her white dress, she looked graver than if she were about to attend her own funeral. Beautiful in a cold, immovable way, resisting the very passion, the overflowing fire that had first drawn Killian.

_Do you think if you look calm and resigned as death, I’ll kill you?_

If she couldn’t beat him at his own game, she wouldn’t play at all – would wait for him to get bored with his docile ragdoll.

Anger was spiraling madly into Killian’s head. As long as she was talking, he could persuade her, as long as she was fighting, win her over – but what was he to do with her compliance, so utterly un-Emma Swan? When she was in this state, it would do him little good to drag her to the ends of the world, to imprison her in his boat and make him his bride forever. She would always _elude_ him in spirit; she was eluding him right now, driving him to madness.

“Won’t you talk to me?” He heard himself say. Such weakness! What was getting into him?

“And say what?”

Her tone was empty, drained of the spirit that had riled him so from the beginning.

_Is she killing herself so I won’t be able to kill her?_

His knuckles were white on the steering wheel, his chest freezing with sudden fear, that she’d be gone before he could finally bring her back to life. That was the initial plan. Stealing her and taking her to see the world as she’d never seen it, so that in the middle of the ocean, with nothing but the blue vastness of the sky and sea around her, with nothing but his voice whispering softly into her ear, he might inspire her to follow him, to open herself to that secret desire he’d awoken in her.

“What game are you playing, Emma?” He asked.

“You’re usually the one who tells me that.”

“Answer me.”

He didn’t like the sound of himself commanding her.

“I don’t know,” still with that same apathetic surrender. “I’m tired.”

“So sleep.”

“No.”

He looked back at her, took in her collected features, her hands nestled in her lap, taped together at the wrists. Her eyes were the worst, cold, _vacant_. A few hours ago only, she was tossing the clothes he’d bought her on the ground and calling him a savage. How had it gone out of her?

“I’m tired of this,” she said. “Us.”

Impulsively, Killian pulled over. A vague flash of surprise tore Emma from her stupor. There was no other car in sight – Killian had opted for a discreet road, with nothing but the woods on either side of the tarmac.

Intensely, his blue gaze alight, he looked at her and waited. Though the menace in his eyes was plain, she didn’t lose her composure or break into sobbing apologies.

“You said you’d bring me freedom,” she said.

“Yes.”

“And yet, since I’ve met you, I’ve done nothing but try to escape you.”

“Now,” he chuckled, “that’s just dishonest.” Smiling as he was, the authority in his tone was overwhelming. “Look into my eyes and dare to tell me you were free _before_ you knew me.”

“Compared to this?”

She arched a blond brow. Her voice rose with the seeds of outrage. Now, he thought, _that_ was more like it, his true, fiery Emma, calling him a monster.

_Monsters are better off than slaves, sweetheart_.

“Yes,” he said, patiently, “even compared to this. Don’t act as if I was the first man to tie your hands, love. Hopefully, I’ll be the last, and I’ll be the one to break all ties, too.”

“So you say.”

His smile enlarged. Killian’s smile was the sort that reminded you in the animal kingdom, flashing your teeth meant warning and possible strife.

“Tell me, Emma, darling,” he said, “if you were such a _completely free_ woman, what were you doing hiding in the woods instead of attending your own wedding?”

She didn’t tell him this was ridiculous, didn’t say she was going to marry Neal without the shadow of a doubt before he showed up. Didn’t see the point, suddenly, in lying.

“The fact remains,” she said, “that you’ve held a gun to my head and put me in chains.”

“Let’s not be dramatic. This is tape, and I don’t quite think I held that gun to your head –”

“Don’t be a coward.” Her frontality surprised him. “What makes you different from them, Killian?” She asked, her voice trembling with righteous anger. “The men you hate so much, who put people into cages. Because Adam Gold makes you follow his rules, and you make me take part into your world of anarchy and chaos – how is that so different, when we’re both left without a choice?”

“It’s different because you _will_ choose.”

“When? When you’ve broken me? When you’ll have done enough that there won’t be enough of me left to make a proper decision?”

The thought of striking her flashed through his brain. Whatever stopped him – the brightness in her eyes, the utter absence of fear somewhat awing him to silence – he couldn’t say.

“No.” The words in his mouth were the authority of violence, hers that of rightness. “No, I’m not _changing_ you. I’m bringing out what’s real, what’s hidden, what you’ve had to smother because you lived in their world –”

“And if you’re wrong?” She interrupted. Unconsciously, he admired her lack of mercy. “If we aren’t soul mates Killian, if I’m just one of your mutilated creations – if by the end of this, you realize all you’ve done is make me another of your victims, don’t you think it’ll be your worst disappointment? Don’t you think you’ll hate yourself, for destroying everything you touch? That you’ll be completely alone?”

He started the car again without a word. The roar of the engine was the only answer she got.

There was nothing else to do, nothing to say, and it was the best way he could keep from hurting her. He’d gotten into Emma’s head long ago, now, she was only getting into his.

It was too late to go back, now. They’d long gone past the point of no return.

He hadn’t done all of this to lose her.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It’d been a long while since I’d done some Killian POV and it both felt fantastic and a little frightening, as usual. Please let me know your thoughts. I’m sorry I was so long in posting this chapter.


	19. Late

The sunny sky was a bright parody of happiness, over the pretty, homey garden that Neal and Emma had chosen for their wedding.

It was only when Emma was half an hour late that Neal’s best man whispered to him, half-embarrassed and apologetic, “Maybe we should go and see if something’s wrong.”

Until he suggested it, it hadn’t occurred to Neal at all. In truth, he wasn’t the least bit nervous about today, had been talking with some friends he’d been too busy to see in a while, hadn’t even seen the hour or noticed how late Emma was.

“Oh.” He checked his watch, hesitated. “Well, isn’t it expected for brides to be a little late?”

“I’m just saying, people are waiting.” But what he meant, of course, what Neal read into his words, was: people are _talking_. “I could just go to her room, knock, ask if she’s about ready.”

That seemed harmless and so Neal gave his assent. That’s about when the day took such a wicked turn.

“Gone?” Neal repeated.

It was like he’d never heard the word spoken before, like he was a fish trying to speak the unnatural syllable, utterly incapable of understanding.

“Gone?”

Emma’s parents were starting to worry. They did try to comfort him – and Neal, in his awkward incomprehension, made an effort to comfort them in return – but their efforts only managed to make things look worse, their anxiety feeding each other’s until the three of them were beyond hope.

“Emma would never do something like that to you,” Mary Margaret said, but she wasn’t looking at him, wasn’t looking at anything. “I’m sure. There’s got to be an explanation.”

At this point, the chatter was spreading to each cluster of people in the garden like a swarm of flies.

“Hey,” someone said at some point, when the word reached him, “I think I know where Emma went.”

Neal looked strangely, ungratefully at him. _Went_ was better than _gone_ , but it still wasn’t _here_ and _married_.

“What?”

“Yeah. Two hours ago, maybe two and a half, I saw her heading into the woods.”

“The woods?” Neal echoed.

Mary Margaret turned livid. “ _Alone_?”

“No.”

A tremor of approval went over the assembly. They had been disappointed, kept waiting to see the bride, but this was much better than a regular wedding.

Neal started walking towards him. The man took a step back, although Neal wasn’t the sort of man that looked frightening, and he had no violent thought in mind – no thought at all, really. Maybe he was just going to grab the man by the collar and hang there like a drowned victim.

“She was with the sheriff,” the guest spoke urgently, trying to get the words out before Neal reached him, backing away all the while, nearly tipping over the banquet table, where the wedding cake was staring at Neal with mocking glee. “You know that weird fellow, Graham. The guy who brought mice to school one day, remember?”

Graham? How very scandalous. Neal only caught a few words in the general humming of the guests’ conversations – _but wasn’t Graham seeing Madam Mayor – oh, they’d heard things had gone downhill for them, and word was he’d always had a thing for Emma, didn’t they remember the day he’d brought her a valentine in fifth grade?_

Then, without a word, maybe only to get away from the crowd, Neal was headed out of the garden and towards the forest.

The guests stared with wide eyes and gaping mouths, suddenly silent. Neal wasn’t even aware that a good deal of them had followed him until after he’d found Graham’s body.

 

…

 

The sheriff was lying on his side, lips and eyes ajar, caked mud on the side of his face. Neal rushed on his knees, vaguely heard someone say he shouldn’t move him, but instinct didn’t allow for rational thoughts to kick in.

Neal knew Graham was alive, even before he took his pulse. His body was cold, but not stiff, and a low grunt escaped from his throat when Neal rolled him on his back.

“Emma.”

The name slipped painfully through Graham’s lips. By this point, Neal could see where the sheriff was wounded – the front of his white shirt was carmine red. It was strange, seeing him out of his uniform, oddly vulnerable.

“What about Emma?” Neal urged him.

Now, a few guests were gasping in surprise and calling the police. Someone tried to get Neal back on his feet – Emma’s father – asking him to calm down. Neal realized his hands were still around Graham’s shoulders from when he’d moved him. It felt irrelevant to step back.

“Where is Emma, Graham? Where is my wife?”

You heard the effort in every breath the sheriff took, carefully gathering strength for words. “He took her. There, in the woods. I saw him take her.”

“Who?” Neal asked.

“Not him,” Mary Margaret covered her mouth with both hands. “Not Killian Jones, Graham. _Please_.”

“The Ripper?” David planted uncomprehending eyes on her.

Oblivious to the intent of his own body, Neal let go of Graham and got on his feet, his eyes unwavering from Emma’s mother. “What do you know?” He asked, pleading.

“Oh God,” Mary Margaret whimpered. “ _Oh God_.”

But the closer Neal got, the less he needed to ask, because it was all becoming clear, suddenly, too little too late.

“That assignment for school,” Neal said, his voice hoarse with pleading. “That inmate she was meeting in prison.”

“You don’t mean –” David started.

“Killian Jones.” Graham said.

Around the guests, the groom and the bride’s helpless family, the woods seemed to shudder at the sound of Killian’s name.

It was like whispering an ancient curse, Neal reflected.

Or speaking the devil’s name at church.

 

…

 

The tape was tight around Emma’s hands. Throughout the ride, when Killian’s eyes were on the road, she tried pulling against the bonds, not really because she thought she could escape. But the painful rubbing proved a good way to pass the time, to keep her mind busy.

_After all this time, finally he takes me to his kingdom of Night_.

What a cold fall it had been, so far. Away from everyone she loved, away from her own self, lost in a strange world.

And finally, there they were. Just the two of them and a rolling car. An empty road. A gun. The forest around them black as terror.

Emma would rather not look out the window, where the flashing landscape made it too clear, how many miles stood between her and home, how far past the point of no return they had to be.

Then the sound of Killian’s laughter filled the car, and Emma had to look up, in surprise. For the past few hours, he hadn’t been cheerful at all.

The sight of the goblin-grin on his cheeks spread gooseflesh down Emma’s arms.

“Look, Emma.” He said. Emma realized the car had stilled. “Look at what awaits us.”

Emma felt her neck crane to look ahead, her eyes keenly open. She didn’t want to obey and yet, curiosity was like an invisible hand holding her by the hair.

_I don’t want to go_ , she thought, one last time. _I never wanted to fall away from my ordinary life, I never wanted those dreams of chaos and dark wonders_.

But it was too late.

From where the car was parked, she could see they were nearing a harbor. Through the windshield, ahead of them, the ocean was breaking, wave upon wave against the few boats, looking desolate and deserted, in the gloom of night. The sky was moonless.

In her chest, Emma felt her heart squeeze with fright and – anticipation.

_I don’t want to go_ , the words echoed in her head again.

And yet, yet –

Could she even imagine the freedom of a life, away from civilization, unbound by the expectations of what her loved ones wanted her to be?

Maybe she _was_ curious, maybe even tempted, but was that the same as wanting?

A gasp escaped her when Killian closed his hand on hers – the feel of the tape appeared to surprise him and his face took on a graver look.

He wished he could play the secret lover leading her down the road of desire, and not have to be her tormentor.

But he was both, her cage and freedom, freer and oppressor.

And, if only for a brief moment of clarity, they were both aware of it.

“Look,” he said again. “And say hello to eternity. My absolute darling.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can feel the end coming and each chapter gets more intense for me. Please let me know what you think.


	20. No

Mr. Gold was nicely sitting in his office when he learned the news of Emma’s kidnapping, just sorting out some papers, doing nothing of importance, almost as if he’d been waiting for one of his people to knock politely on the door and tell him this.

Certainly, he had been expecting _something_ extraordinary. The wedding was too good an occasion for Killian to miss it. The risks of stepping out of his hiding place with so many people around wouldn’t discourage him. The warden knew his ripper well. If Killian Jones could dress himself as a guard and walk out of prison like some sort of prestidigitator, then he could infiltrate Emma’s wedding and give his relationship with the girl a proper finish. Gold had known Killian wouldn’t resist the _theatricality_ of it, the cliché.

The warden was warned not a lot of time after Neal and the wedding guests discovered Graham in the woods.

Gold had lived in Storybrooke for a very long time, and he always ensured he was well-informed around town, knew at least one person from every circle so he’d be notified every time something of interest happened. Regina Mills might be the mayor, but Storybrooke was _his_ city. Power was gained through networks of people you could control, people who owed you, people you could blackmail.

Things being as they were, how could he have let Emma Swan leave her part of the deal unfulfilled and get away with it?

“Taken, you say?” Gold asked the man who’d entered his office. A prison guard, who claimed he’d just gotten a call from a certain Mrs. Taylor, who’d been invited to Emma’s wedding, and who cheated on her husband every Sunday morning when he was at church.

“That’s what it looks like.”

Mr. Gold laughed. It was none of the genial smiles that had made Emma’s blood run so cold during their interviews, but a surprisingly genuine outburst of mischievous glee.

“Taken!” He repeated. The guard didn’t look startled but a little frightened by his delight. “In her wedding dress, on her own wedding day! How sensational. Feel as you will about the Ripper, he can sure pick his timing, can’t he? Why, now Emma Swan can be her own something borrowed. I sure hope,” he added, with a smile going from ear to ear, “that he’s taken her somewhere _blue_.”

 

…

 

In the midnight-darkness around them, the ocean looked not blue but black, and the air was cold, intrusive on Emma’s skin, as Killian dragged her outside the car.

“Come,” he said. “We’re almost there. We’ve almost made it out.”

_Out_.

The word reverberated on Emma’s mind, like the echo of a faraway footstep across her brain.

She remembered, suddenly, how people used to think that the ocean ultimately led to the end of the world. That after enough time sailing – maybe years and years – you’d ultimately come across a terrifying precipice that would represent the end of all things, and fall to your doom down this abyss.

“Killian,” she said, not pleading. Her voice was pure terror. There wasn’t enough space left for her to think of coaxing him.

His hand was firm around her forearm – he’d untied her before taking her out of the car, just after he’d left her alone for a few minutes, disappearing inside a small shed and coming back with a set of keys and a triumphant grin.

Had the shed been empty or had he killed the owner?

Emma asked herself the question mechanically. After all this time, all those victims, maybe it wouldn’t make much difference. But to her, it would, it _should_ , because it was one of the compromises she’d gotten out of him and it had to count for something, his promises, the few scraps of power he gave her, the infinitely few moments when he let her win.

He’d been gone only a few minutes. Yet again, killing someone was quick, when you were used to it – why, just slitting somebody’s throat in their sleep would be a matter of seconds.

Lowering her eyes to Killian’s hand, the one that was holding the key, she tried to see whether there was blood on it. It was too dark for her to be sure.

Maybe there should be blood on the key, like in the fairytale. It crossed Emma’s mind, then, that she was just like the woman in that Bluebeard story, following a man who had killed dozens of girls like her.

Except Bluebeard punishes his wife for disobeying him.

Killian _wanted_ her to resist, to abandon herself to transgression and the sole power of her will.

“Wait,” she urged, stopped thinking, tried to resist his inexorable hold as he led them towards the sea.

“No,” he looked back at her, and stopped for a brief moment.

Suddenly, his palm was embracing the curve of her cheek. It was too quick for Emma to think of how she ought to feel, or really to determine what she _did_ feel.

His touch was soft – of course it was, all of his victims, she must remember, had followed him willingly.

“I’m sorry,” he said, and seemed to mean it.

Although Emma’s heart was still beating like a war drum in her breast, she felt oddly quieted. Standing there with Killian, with his hand on her face.

_Maybe with enough time_ , she thought, _he could make me forget why I should be afraid in the first place_.

“We don’t have time, darling. We can’t wait. Everyone is looking for us. Imagine the frustration if they should stop us now, when we’re so close to eternity.”

He spoke in riddles as he always had and yet, Emma felt she knew his meaning.

How ridiculous, that this had all started with her wondering _what_ went on in a murderer’s head, and now she knew, better than anyone, could no longer even make out a concrete difference between his mind and hers.

“I know you’re afraid,” he said, without condescendence, without letting on that he’d already seen fear on women’s faces and killed them all the same. “It’s all right, Emma. You just step into that boat with me, and this is over – I won’t make a choice for you again. Just take that leap with me.” He smiled, exhilarated. “Just give me some time. One hour. It’s all I’m asking. One hour, when we’re away from this place, from everything. That’ll be enough.”

“For what?” The words tremored past the edge of her lips.

“To see my world,” he answered. Her eyes had gotten used to the darkness and she could make out every feature, feel the warmth of his breath on her face. How close were they? She couldn’t tell, exactly. Smiling, his lips framed the words, delicate persuasion, “I just want you to see.”

It struck Emma that Killian didn’t look like any of the men or women she’d known, that he didn’t look like what she thought of a murderer or even of an artist.

He didn’t look like the man, the agent, but the _spirit_. Temptation itself. Passion in the flesh.

When he spoke again, Emma had the feeling she was hearing the voice of a dream. “Just try it, Emma. _Taste_ it. Let me take you down those uncharted waters and discover its beauties with me, my life.” He sounded joyful now, blinded by his confidence. “Tell me that you don’t want it. That you don’t want _me_.”

“No.”

Emma didn’t have to muster her strengths to speak the word. She didn’t hang on to the thought of Neal, or Graham – the strange, loving friend – the friend Killian had killed. She didn’t have to _struggle_ to speak what she acknowledged then to be the absolute truth.

“Not for an hour,” she said. “Not for a second. I won’t see your world, Killian. If you want to put me in this boat and keep me with you, go ahead. But you won’t take me alive.”

A veil of harshness came over his face, blended with astonishingly human disappointment. “Why? We’re so close, Emma –”

“Because I can’t let you make me the prisoner of your own dreams.”

His hand fell away from her face. The other was still tight around her forearm – getting tighter – carrying the weight of his unspoken threat.

“It’s because you _want_ to.” He said, spite and bile giving a new ring to the word. “Because you know if you come with me, then you won’t want to go. You’ll stay with me.”

“Maybe.”

The easiness of her confession startled him.

“But that makes no difference,” she said. “It’s taken me so long to realize this. That part of me wants you doesn’t mean I can’t choose to leave you. It doesn’t make you entitled to tie me up and decide what my life should be.”

The look on his face was frozen, impassive. Emma was oblivious to the danger, didn’t care, suddenly, if he killed her.

“Maybe it’s even _because_ I want it, because I feel drawn to your world, that making this choice matters so much. And I chose, Killian. Who I am. What I really want.”

“ _And_?” His word cut into the darkness.

“You can let me go right now, or you can kill me.” She remained calm when he shook his head, chuckled at her answer, as if he could mock the sense out of it. “It’s the only alternative.”

“Oh, is it?”

“You could also force me into that boat,” she admitted. “You could knock me out to stop me fighting you – and I _will_ fight you – and set sail so we’re already far from land when I wake up.” She shrugged. “It won’t change a thing.”

“How so?”

“Because it’s the same choice,” she said. “Either you drag me into your world as a victim, or you let me go as a free woman. Either turn me into an object, the way you did the others, or choose to let me remain who I was when I met you. When I drew you.” She heard herself add. Each word felt surreal, and yet, Emma had never been more certain of who she was. “You can’t win, Killian,” she realized. “Because what _you_ want, what you admire in me, is something that you can’t cage – or keep. That’s what I mean, when I say you have only two options. Kill me or let me go. Because the woman you’ll take on that terrible journey, the woman you’ll disappear with wherever you wish – it won’t be me.”

She watched as the weight of her decision fell over his face, as his eyes darkened with each second, as he realized there was no way out. That she was right.

Then she knew, they _both_ knew, that every word he spoke was desperate.

“You’re right.” He said, with an odd urgency – it sounded wild and a little insane. She had never thought before, of what Killian Jones must sound like, after getting his heart broken. “I wanted something impossible. I wanted to trap freedom as freedom and keep it with me always. But if I don’t trap you. You can decide. You can leave with me, leave this world behind –”

“No.”

She didn’t speak harshly. There was no need to.

The collectedness on his face crumbled but he picked it up piece by piece, and tried again.

“I can change, Emma.” He said, solemn as a worshiper kneeling at an altar. “I can change _for you_. I can stop killing, I can stop playing, I can stop threatening you.”

“You could no more bend yourself into an average man than I could love you as you are.” There was no cruelty in her words, but no pity either. What would be the point not to say things as they were? “It’s like you said. We’re from two different worlds.”

“But there’s something alike in us,” he argued. “You’ve always known that.”

“Maybe there was, at the beginning. Maybe if we’d made more of the same choices, then looking at you would even be like looking into a mirror. But we haven’t,” she said. “You’re everything I haven’t become, Killian, everything I _can’t_ become.”

“It’s not too late.” He persisted, deluding himself. “We can start over, somewhere new. Not my world or yours. Somewhere different. No more murders, no more crimes. Could you live with that?”

“No.”

He let go of her arm, angry but not surprised. Of course, he must have known that’s what she’d answer. His eyes were set on the ocean, the waves meeting the sky in their black embrace.

“I couldn’t live with someone who’s taken lives,” she said.

“And if I hadn’t?”

He turned back towards her fiercely, as if he were ready to create a new universe where he wasn’t a murderer, some imaginary land, just for she and him, where she could reign as Queen.

Emma realized she had never been looked at with so much devotion as now.

And, just as suddenly, she realized she was no longer afraid of Killian.

“If I hadn’t been a murderer,” he said, “if I were just everything else I am, just the man standing in front of you, with no past, just a black-and-white slate, could you love me, Emma?”

“Does it matter, when you can never do that?”

“It matters.” They were both silent for a long while, until he resumed, a little calmer. “But it’s all right. I understand why you’d rather not say.”

Emma felt she ought to protest but never found the will to. At this moment, on this harbor, looking into Killian’s eyes, there was room only for truth.

“That’s all there is, then?” From the mere sound of his voice, she could tell he knew he had lost. “I can be your tyrant but not your lover. And you know how I feel about freedom. My sweet Emma. You do know, darling, that you’re not winning either.”

Softly, he brushed his knuckles against her cheek. His touch was different, now that they were both equals, that the threat between them had dropped.

“You know you’ll never feel that way about anyone again. That what we share is ours alone. You won’t find it anywhere else.” He sighed. “And still, you won’t change your answer. You won’t give me anything but that sharp, heart-rending _No_?”

“What else would you want?”

He smiled. “Close your eyes.”

She did.

And, for a moment, there was nothing around her but silence, nothing but the taste of eternity on her lips.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can’t imagine the time I’ve had writing this. I think WWIII could have broken out without my noticing. Please let me know your thoughts. I’m dying to know what you think.


End file.
